Truthseekers
by mierin-lanfear
Summary: No one has warned Vera that wishes are twobladed. A failed suicide attempt sets her on the road to selfdiscovery. In her dangerous journey, she finds out that she is not alone.
1. Chapter One

_Creating stories, original fiction and fanfiction, always suffer from birth pangs. For this one, the pains were a lot, spanning a few months. Basically, it was the pain of indecision: whether to present a story idea in a way I only know how, or not to write at all._

_As the cliché goes: bite the bullet._

_Disclaimers: Most characters, with the exception of the two sisters (and future antagonists) belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But then again, they belong to the public domain now. The story does not in any way follow the Canon timeline, an AU of sorts._

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter One

She was soaked to her skin. Her clothes smelled of river water, a wholly unpleasant smell.

But she did not remember diving into the river. Certainly not this river. She had jumped off a bridge--an old mossy brick affair which fit the sleepy college town--but not this bridge. A jagged disconnect in reality.

The rain had stopped a few moments ago. Almost as soon as she opened her eyes to the foggy yellow light of the streetlamps. She pushed herself up against the stone parapet, clutching at her wet nylon knapsack close to her. Shivers ran down her spine as a sharp cough caught her throat.

The air was cold. Damp and cold as the fog.

She was shaking violently. Her clothes were wet, clinging to her like cold glass. _I'll catch my death in cold... _she thought.

Then her pale lips broke into a smile. She laughed hysterically, until another sharp cough silenced her.

She had wanted to die. But she never expected this.

* * *

Precariously, she balanced herself on the bridge's parapet, despite the slippery overgrown moss on the bricks. Her body slightly wobbled as she fought against the storm winds pushing her back to the road. Stretching out her arms, her center of gravity shifted to a more proper location. 

Rowan was horrified. "What the shit are you doin'?!" she screamed. "Are you out of your friggin' mind?" She tugged at the hem of her sister's dress. "It ain't down, please?"

The girl on the parapet remained deaf to her sister's plea. Her ears listened only to the thousand mad whisperings of the gales. _...just a small step...one step...tiny away...away...end it...to end it all..._

"To end it all..." Vera whispered, looking down at Rowan with her glassy green eyes. She shifted her focus on the roaring brown river below the bridge. _End it away...with us...seek...look up..._ A ghostly pearl-gray feather serenely drifted down, defying the wild winds.

Her green eyes fixed on the apparition, she jumped from the bridge, vainly reaching out to the feather. The mad hiss of the gales drowned out Rowan's screams from Vera's ears as she fell into the bridge's darkness.

* * *

A few wobbly steps led her away from the parapet, into the patched yellow gloom. Her eyes barely made out the shape of the lamps and the street. But from what she could divine from her jumbled senses, she was surprised. Surprise, then wonder, then fear. 

The bridge was indeed different. The street was also different. So were the lamp posts.

Quaint lamp posts. Quaint _gas_ lamp posts.

Cobblestoned street. A wide bridge, worlds apart from the small stone footbridge near the university.

_Clop clop clop..._

Horse hoof against cobblestone. She turned her head in the direction of the sound.

She wasn't sharp nor quick enough to avoid the horse-drawn carriage.She was too numb and confused by the frigid air and the surroundings.

* * *

Rowan scanned the river's surface for any sign of Vera. Her tears came streaming down her face. 

"Dammit, Vera! Where are you?!" she screamed at the swollen river. _Not when I need you...and Mamu needs you, you selfish bitch..._ She ran her hand through her short red hair in frustration.

A few minutes later, she hunted for the nearest phone booth in the town to call 911.

For her, Vera had just committed suicide.

* * *

Two weeks ago, she was leaning against the cold ceramic tiles of the bathroom, her blood trickling down from her slashed arms. The blade slid painlessly against her pale skin, but Vera winced as soon as the blood began to flow. 

No more numbness. Freedom.

Before lapsing into catatonia, Rowan had found her slumped against the wall. As with all her previous attempts, the matter was hushed up between the two sisters. Especially when Rowan had read her mother's letter. In there, Mamu wrote that she was divorcing Daddy.

Daddy had a mistress. And she was Vera's collegue in the University.

* * *

Vera had a vague recollection of agitated male voices, of sturdy arms carrying her aloft into a warm space. Her lips moved soundlessly as something thick and warm was securely wrapped around her. 

These sensations faded away as she finally lost consciousness.

* * *


	2. Chapter Two

_I am: Bewildered by a number of things: a KENSHU report for Advanced Inorganic Chemistry (don't ask! I'm relieved that I emerged unscathed!) and a demo grad lab for Cell/Molecular Bio! _

Strange: as soon as I posted the first chapter, I got my first review! Thanks! At least I have something to smile about at the end of a tiring day.

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Two

It was around 10:00 PM when the search parties were called off. The Coast Guards had the river dredged twice, hoping to find her body. They were unsuccessful.

Meanwhile, Rowan paced to and fro along one of the narrow, flourescent-lit corridors of the precinct, arguing battery-minutes away on her mobile phone.

"Look, Mamu, you must come here...the search is called off for the night, another storm is brewing...what? Why won't you...?" She took a quick drag from her 'Slims in agitation. "Ma, I can't believe at what you're sayin'...that's bullshit! Mamu, listen to me: MY sister didn't just BUNGEE-jump...YOUR daughter is..."

_Click.  
_  
An abrupt end to their exchange. Rowan flicked her smouldering cigarette and crushed it with her stiletto heel. Her large green eyes mirrored her increasing frustration with Mamu and herself. At her situation right now.

_Dammit, Mamu! YOUR issues with Dad just killed Vera_! she fumed. _Damn you and Dad to..._

"Miss Gale, no littering."

She sharply turned her head at a young police officer, who held the still-smouldering cigarette butt up. "Captain Smith is waiting in the office."

Rowan swallowed a string of curses and other elaborate hexes as her heels clicked towards a whitewashed door at the end of the corridor.

* * *

Vera woke up at the grey half-light of dawn, in a strange bed, with a strange blanket draped on her. 

A round, matronly woman with crinkly hazel eyes sat at the foot of the bed. Her kind face lit up with a smile as she noticed that her ward stirred. "Good morning, miss. You're safe now." The matron leaned over Vera and felt her forehead. "Just a touch of fever because of the water and the cold."

Vera pulled herself up, feeling a bit dizzy. The delicate, floating quality of a fever rose to greet her. "Where am I?" she asked, her mouth dry. She looked down at herself, at the oversized sleeves of a man's shirt. "And where are my clothes?"

The woman stood up, adjusting her bulky skirts around her. "I'm the landlady of this flat." _Flat? Apartment?_ Vera thought, as she watched the matron glide a few steps away, skirts softly rustling behind her. _Wait...is that a bustle or a crinoline...? Bustle?!_ She blinked.

Madame-Landlady-With-A-Bustle bent down towards a chair across the room and picked up a soft bundle. A snuff-colored dressing gown. Walking back to Vera, she said, "My name is Mrs. Martha Hudson. The gentlemen who brought you here last night are renting my rooms. Please--" She handed the robe to her. "Put this on, or you'll get chilly. Your clothes were wet. He lent you an old shirt of his, in lieu of a proper nightdress, until I find one for you."

She fingered the thick flannel thoughtfully. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." She took a quick glance around her room. A chair. A dresser. A window with heavy curtains, drawn away from the frame. The light was grey with fog.

Taking a deep breath, she smelled coffee and eggs, and the pervading scent of tobacco. Stale smokers' atmosphere.

As Mrs. Hudson began to withdraw from the room, she asked, "Where am I again? And, what's the date today?" Her voice had a touch of wonder and unease.

The landlady's hazel eyes crinkled in a smile. "Young miss, you are in London, the 1st of November eighteen eighty-eight. If you feel well now, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are expecting you for breakfast." She gave Vera a curtsy and closed the oaken door.

* * *

Midnight. Rowan flicked open the light switch in their apartment. Her apartment. 

Dumping her wet umbrella on the rack, she let out a sigh of relief. She hated the captain's interrogation, at his thinly-veiled accusation of pushing her sister from the parapet. No witnesses.

Bullshit.

A pile of unopened letters by the foyer table. She took them and stomped upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom. She needed to read the mail, sort the important ones from the junk, before crying herself to sleep.

Poor Vera.

"I miss you, Ve," she said aloud, to no one, as she sat on the quilted bedspread. A Wiccan dreamcatcher hanging above the headboard. Crystals and candles on her bedside table. She gave a silent prayer to the spirits for her lost sister.

One by one, she opened the envelopes. Ripped off the flaps glued on the papers andbegan to sort the contents.

She left a yellowed, delicate letter for the last. Carefully, she tore off the edge of the envelope. And gasped.

Out fell a faded Polaroid photo of Vera. Her lost sister.

She wore a 19th century gown. Victorian. She was smiling a two-dimensional half-smile up at Rowan.

Rooting inside the envelope, she found no letter or note. Rowan looked at what was written outside.

It was addressed to her. Sent from the London Post Office.

On the flap: _To be delivered to Ms. Rowan Gale at 12th June 2004. Please keep this until the said date._ Her sister's signature was below the message, together with the date 1889.

* * *


	3. Chapter Three

_As my good old physicist friend daisychain1 (thanks for the review!) said: time travel is highly improbable. Can't blame her, in physics, it IS improbable, as Stephen Hawking had insisted. But let that fact not interfere with the weaving of a story.  
  
BaskervilleBeauty: You have a point about the shirt/nightdress...if you were roused at past midnight, would you be alert or completely awake to hunt for something suitable for a strange woman? In an old heavy chest somewhere in an attic or garret? Something without the scent of mothballs, camphor or without moth-eaten holes?_

* * *

****

**Truthseekers  
**by mierin-lanfear  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Somewhere, in a large shadowy room, two figures stood by the window, silhouetted by the moonlight. They were bent over a basin of water, catching the reflections of the moonbeams.  
  
Hair fair as the bloodless moon. Irises red as pigeons' blood.  
  
Twins.  
  
One held a vial filled with something dark and viscous over the basin. She slowly tipped it over the water. A slow, painful drop fell from the crystal lip into the moonlit water, which soon clouded over. Dark red clouds scudded beneath the surface.  
  
Another held a similar vial. She poured its contents into the water, uttering a wordless whisper.  
  
They breathed on the basin's still surface, and waited.  
  
Both smiled, their lips the color of bleached bone.  
  
Their scrying mirror does not lie.  
  
"She is beautiful."  
  
"Perfect."  
  
"But unripe. Two more must be found soon."  
  
"Earth and water. But form must be followed."  
  
One clapped her hands in delight, with a girlish laugh.  
  
"Indeed, she has come for us." They smiled, with teeth like strings of pearls.  
  
Hair as fair as the bloodless moon. Eyes as red as blood.

* * *

As Mrs. Hudson left, Vera tossed the blanket aside and got out of the bed, draping the dressing gown around her slender figure. She could feel the slight nip of cold air on her face and on her bare feet.  
  
She found a pair of oversized carpet slippers underneath the bed. Putting them on, she shuffled towards the window. And shuddered.  
  
Light-headed, she saw a cobblestoned street beneath the window. Through the slowly-dissipating fog, Vera could discern bobbing hats and heads of pedestrians walking along the sidewalks. She heard a distant clopping of horses. A four-wheeler cab passed beneath her.  
  
She quickly drew the curtains, gasping cold air. As she sank down on her knees, her jumbled thoughts came rushing in her head. _No, impossible...I can't believe it!_ She slapped her hands against her temples. _Think, Vera, think! How could this thing happen?  
_  
_The storm winds were strong._  
  
_I remember jumping off the bridge..._  
  
_...and Rowan was yelling her head off at me._  
  
She looked at her empty hands. _I touched a grey feather...  
_  
_...and wished..._ She shuddered again. _...to die._ She drew the robe closer to her, tugging her long black braid.  
  
London. Eighteen eighty-eight.  
  
It was a distant time and place for a death wish.

* * *

Gently shutting the door behind her, she surveyed the next room with wary eyes. Taking short steps, she approached the fireplace. The burning wood crackled solemnly before her.  
  
The study glowed with warmth. Two windows spanned the room, across, with their maroon damask curtains drawn to the sides. Grey morning light filtered through the glass, softening the shadows of the clutter scattered on the desks, including the various memoranda stuck on the mantle with a jackknife.  
  
Messy bookshelves. Faded sepia photographs on a side table.  
  
On one wall, she touched the bulletholes with curiosity. And smiled as she found a chemical workbench on one corner beside the window.  
  
It was a familiar and friendly sight for her. Florence, erlenmeyer and round-bottom flasks were precisely arranged on the table, a far cry from the cluttered paraphernalia on the other desks. An iron tripod, wire mesh and Bunsen burner on one side. Ceramic and glass funnels on another. A disassembled simple distillation apparatus laid carefully out, with the condenser farthest from the table's edge.  
  
Dry test tubes in wooden racks. A bouquet of volumetric and pasteur pipettes inside an old, rust-free can.  
  
A broad, four-panelled door marked the other end of the study. Behind them, snatches of conversation drifted towards Vera's ears.  
  
_The gentlemen who rent the rooms..._ she thought. Her hand was on the knob, but she did not turn it. Leaning her head against the close-grained wood, she listened to the conversation.  
  
Two voices. An incisive tenor and a gentle rumbling bass.  
  
"Holmes, I don't think it is proper for us to inspect the young lady's belongings..." the bass voice rumbled. Vera thought, This must be Dr. Watson. She did a double-take on her covered arms. _Did the doctor notice the scars...?_  
  
"But this is a highly instructive exercise for us to gather information about our singular guest," replied the tenor. _This must be Holmes..._  
  
"We could ask her. Mrs. Hudson has told us that she's presently awake."  
  
"Not before we have formed some correct inferences about her. Look here, Watson..." A pause. She heard a zipper slide open. My bag... "Three books, a small pouch, a light rectangular object with numbered buttons. Another light item with wires and two round padded ends. Halloa, a purse!"  
  
Another pause. Then Watson's voice broke the silence. "Her name's Vera Gale, but...this is impossible!...The card says here that her birthyear is nineteen eighty!"  
  
_My LICENSE card!_ Vera exclaimed inwardly.  
  
Watson continued with disbelief, "I find it hard to believe that our lady guest is more than a hundred-years advanced from us."  
  
"I don't." The tenor voice sounded calm and clinical. The lecture-type voice.  
  
"Why? Pray tell."  
  
"First, the clothes Miss Gale was wearing when we found her are markedly different from what women fashion dictates at this era. Second, the fabric of her knapsack is not our typical oilcloth covers; it is light yet can retard water, for her books are dry. Third, the material for the two rectangular objects is of interest. Touch it. It feels like porcelain, but is light and unbreakeable."  
  
_The calculator and iPod!  
_  
"The card you're holding is sealed with the same material, with the clarity of glass. The contents of the card is also instructive: read the fine print above her name. It is a chemist's license card."  
  
"At present, there are very few ladies who devote their time in scientific study. Yet Miss Gale has a license to practise chemistry, and possibly pursuing further studies in that field, as these books show."  
  
Vera winced. She had brought "Inorganic Chemistry" by Shriver and Atkins and "Biochemistry" by Mathews with her.  
  
"From these, I can infer that our guest is Vera Gale, a young woman in her early twenties. An intelligent, troubled young woman..." His voice trailed off.  
  
"Troubled? Ah, you deduced it from the torn family photograph from her purse."  
  
"Precisely. An intelligent, troubled young lady..."  
  
_The end of the conversation_. Or so Vera thought.  
  
The knob turned and the door flung open away from her hand. She was stunned, as a tall, thin man with piercing grey eyes looked down upon her.  
  
"...who is presently awake in time for breakfast." He bowed low before her, with an amused, sardonic smile at her surprise. "Good morning, Miss Gale."

* * *


	4. Chapter Four

_I promised myself to slow down a bit. Churning out the first three chapters in just a few days--during the most hectic part of my weekly schedule--is an overkill. The keyword in this A/N is "prioritize." _

For more (side-)info about the two sisters, don't hesitate to drop by OR post a review. And, if anyone needs a bit of help in some chem problems, holler in the same URL I posted in here.

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear  
_  
Chapter Four  
  
"Good morning, Miss Gale."

Vera shrank away, clutching the edges of the robe tightly around her, from the tall, austere figure standing on the threshold. From an oblique angle, she saw a lace-ruffled table corner and a silver gleam of cutlery behind him. A wave of nausea assaulted her senses--as she took a misstep and faltered.

"Miss Gale!" The tall man was quick in his reflexes, gripping her by the sides of her shoulders to steady her. An expression of concern crossed his face momentarily. "Forgive me, it was imprudent of me to give you such a shock."

She looked up at him with frightened eyes and saw that he was sincere in his apology. Vera noted the slight furrow between his black eyebrows and the piercing clarity of his grey eyes. With his sharp nose and clear-cut features, he reminded her of a hawk.

A hawk who unerringly hunts for prey.

A human hawk who can only be satisfied with clearly-hewn facts, which can only be strung together by logic.

She instinctivelyknew that he was an honest person, albeit intense and sudden with his dealings with people. But she kept a guarded air before him.

_Trust no one._

"I was...a bit dizzy, then you opened the door..." she said, shrugging off his hands. She felt light-headed again. "Oh..."

Behind him, a stockyman with an earnest face and equally earnest moustache emerged from the door. As he saw her waver in front of his companion, he immediately rushed to Vera's side and supported her by the elbow. "Mrs. Hudson had informed us that you're running a temperature," the man told her. "You should be in bed."

She shook her head, her long black braid whipping her back in short, vehement snaps. "No need, I can walk...I just want my bag back," she replied, feeling stupid and illogical. "Please." The slight fever was affecting her composure.

The towering figure before her gave a noiseless laugh. "My dear Watson, a dining chair is closer than your old bed. Miss Gale might as well gather her wits back with us for company."

"My name. You saw my license..." Vera said, as she was led by the two men to the sitting room. She slowly sat on a wicker dining chair, facing them across the breakfast table. Her opaque green eyes were still wary.

The tall man gave a short bow before seating himself. "I beg your pardon. My name's Sherlock Holmes." He patted the stocky man's shoulder. "And this is my friend Dr. John Watson."

Watson sat beside Vera, smoothening a discarded table napkin on his tweed lap. "It was friend's idea to inspect your knapsack. I hope you don't mind, Miss Gale." He poured some tea in a plain white china cup and offered it to her.

"No." Then she began to sip the tea in silence, her eyes watchful.

* * *

Breakfast was a silent affair. The grey weather outside the windows darkened with sleet and rain. 

Vera picked at the crumbs of her buttered toast, her green gaze shifting from Holmes and Watson. Her teacup was empty.

"More tea, Miss Gale?" Watson offered, holding the china pot aloft.

Seeing him with the teapot, she suddenly felt embarrassed. Awkward at the fact that a Victorian gentleman offered her more tea. "Thanks, I'll pour some for myself..." She reached out for the pot, absent-mindedly tucking the sleeves of the robe and shirt away from her wrist.

The weeks-old slashes was in full view. Puckered red welts against her pale skin.

Swiftly, Holmes took the pot away from Vera's reach and poured her a fresh cup. His grey eyes probed deep into her. Questioning. "The scars are quite new, Miss Gale."

She quickly withdrew her arm, averting her eyes from his. "Quite. Please, call me Vera." Her tone was flat with finality. She focused on the crumbs on her plate again. "Thank you for the tea, Mr. Holmes."

They were silence once more.A sharp rap on the front door disturbed them.

Watson stood up and left the table. As he opened the door, a busboy presented an envelope to him. "Telegram for Mr. Holmes," the young boy piped out. Watson dug out some coins from his pocket and gave them to the boy.

He read the flap. "Holmes, it's from Lestrade."

Holmes immediately got up, took the envelope from his friend and tore it open. It read:

BODY FOUND IN DOVER STOP IDENTIFIED AS OPERA SINGER GINNY FORD STOP SCOTLAND YARD SUSPECTS MURDER STOP NEED ADVICE STOP WILL YOU COME QUERY

LESTRADE

He frowned over the sheet of paper. "After thirteen days. Intriguing." He looked up from the message, to the lone female form across the room. His frown creased deeper.

_

* * *

_

_Trust no one,_ she silently told herself as she faced the two men in the study. _No one, including yourself.  
_  
She tried to convince herself that everything was fake. Unreal. But a tiny voice within her echoed, _Believe._

How could she believe if she had lost faith in her senses? In herself?

_If this is Hell, God must be surreal..._ she thought, her green eyes dark and unblinking. Vera sat across them, unflinching under the intense, probing light from Holmes' eyes.

"You are far from home," Holmes intoned, as he steepled his long, thin hands and looked away from her. Into the crackling fire. His voice became distant, as if she had turned into ether.

She nodded, looking at the fire. Embers crackled, sparks flew from the wood to the iron grate. "But not as far as I wanted to be."

Watson replied, "Hence the scars on your arms." He had noticed the red marks on her arms. "Two, maybe three weeks old." Outside, the weather deepened into gloom. A heavy downpour replaced the sleety rain. He stood up from his leather easy chair to close the damask curtains, capturing and encapsulatingthe fire's warmth for the room.

Vera rubbed her arms. "Two weeks. But why care? It's not anyone's business." Her opaque green eyes reflected the firelight with defiance.

"It is, now," Holmes replied, turning his grey gaze towards her. "We would like to know how you ended up on a bridge across Thames."

_Implacable.  
_  
She stared into the fire for a while, gathering her thoughts into one coherent line. _Trust no one...no one...not your story.  
_  
_So surreal...  
_  
_Trust no one._ She raked her hands through her black hair in frustration. _No.  
_  
_They will believe. He will. You know that._

Vera gave a strangled cry, which jolted Watson from his chair. His friend remained calm, as he gazed distantly into the fire. Seemingly insensitive to the inner turmoil of his subject.

Her opaque green eyes reflected the dim yellow glow of the fire like glass marbles, as if marbles have hidden pain within their cores.

Angry, hurtful words tumbled out of her, without any restraint. "This is crazy...my whole friggin' life is crazy... I decided to end it all, after knowing that everything's broken: family, relationships...all that crap. I jumped from the bridge. I wanted to kill myself! It's not everyday that your ex dumps you after taking everything, including your dignity, and says that he's very much married...or that your parents split up after learning that your dumbass of a father has a mistress who happens to be your classmate in grad school...or that your professor makes a pass at you in public!" A sharp intake of breath, as she clutched at her braid. "Life is so damn unfair, especially for me, Miss Vera Gale!, who kept her silence for so long...so long... I'm supposed to die, but no-o, Fate is such a b-tch that I end up here, that I still exist."

Her emotional outburst over, Vera slumped back to the settee, exhausted. "It's just...unfair. Simply unfair..." she whimpered, then burst into tears.

The stocky man was aghest. "Young lady...such language!" Watson admonished her. A glass carafe half-filled with brandy stood on a side-table. He poured out a snifter and pressed it into her trembling hands.

"Hm." Holmes looked for his clay pipe from one of his coat pockets, unresponsive to the strong language from Vera. Tamping some tobacco into the clay bowl, he muttered, "Some things never change in time."

He saw that she was far from calming down, he reached out and touched her knee with his long fingers. "I asked a simple question: how did you end up on the bridge across Thames?"

"Don't touch me." She moved her knee away from his hand. Swallowed the rest of her sobs with the brandy. "Even if I told you, you won't believe me." She closed her eyes, unable to take the piercing grey light.

"Are you certain about it?" He steepled his hands once more.

In her mind's eye, she could see herself back in New Hampshire, running away from the University's gates. In her memory, a storm was raging.

"Back home in New Hampshire, it was the twelfth of June. Two thousand and four," Vera began.

She remembered how heavy her rain-soaked clothes felt. She could smell the electricity of the lightning-charged atmosphere. The winds howled and whispered and cried around her. Within her.

The stone parapet looked slippery. Wet moss and brick shone wetly. Below, the deep river was swollen with brown water.

"It was raining, when I stood on the bridge back home."

She felt Rowan tugging at the hem of her dress. A grey feather drifted down from the overcast sky.

"Rowan tried to stop me from jumping. She failed..."

She jumped, reaching out, touching the feather. It brushed softly against her fingers. Her arms flailed. Gravity pulled her down into the darkness.

The air felt empty. No river water. Something hard hit her solar plexus, suffocating her.

"When I jumped, I felt nothing, no water...I must have lost consciousness. Then, when I woke up, it was evening. Here in London. Different place, different era. End of story." She dried her eyes with the brown flannel sleeve of her robe. When she opened her eyes, she saw the fireplace. And the two men, listening to her.

"An interesting story," Holmes murmured. His clay pipe remained unlit.

* * *

The grandfather clock tolled at eleven. Mrs. Hudson made her appearance in the study, after Watson called her. He, on the other hand, had left the flat for his daily medical appointments. 

She radiated a warm, motherly light in the otherwise wooden, silent room.

As the deep echo faded, Holmes took her aside. "Watch over Miss Gale. I'll be leaving for Dover after luncheon," he said in a low voice, glancing at the quiet girl seated on the setee, her eyes fixed on the fire.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." She pitied the lonely figure of Vera. She had seen the scars when she peeled away the wet clothes at half-past midnight. "How long will you be gone?"

"Two to three days. Keep her away from sharp objects."

She nodded sagely. "Meanwhile, I've found some suitable clothes for her in the garret..."

"Excellent." He turned to Vera. "Will you accompany Mrs. Hudson downstairs, Miss Gale?"

She silently complied. As Vera slowly descended the stairs, she looked back at the door. He stood there, silhouetted against the dim firelight, watching her. Distantly.

Vera thought she could discern a thoughtful, worried glint from his eyes. Behind the calm, businesslike facade.

She took another look. The tall, austere figure was gone, as he shut the door behind him.

* * *

_Honestly, I prefer Ch. 3 rather than this chapter, even though it is an important chappie... _


	5. Chapter Five

_For more information regarding the way I'm developing the characters on the drawing board, drop by my blog (check my Bio section). Make your presence known. Chem assignments? If anyone needs help in that area, feel free to holler at my blog._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear  
_

Chapter Five  
  
Rowan was dreaming.

An old childhood memory, revisited.

She was a child-woman again, her vibrantly red hair tied in pigtails, laughing as she took her sister's hand, as they followed their parents' backs at the amusement park. She held a puff of cotton candy, swirled pink and green.

The child Vera was laughing also. A soft breeze caught her straight black hair, which waved like an unbound silk pennant behind them. Her large green oriental eyes sparkled with joy.

Rowan loved her Eurasian half-sister dearly. Her only best friend.

Suddenly, they lost track of their parents' backs among the multitudes of tourists milling around the park. She tugged at her younger sister's hand urgently.

"Ve...?" Her woman-hand was empty. She looked around, at the noisy, colorful crowd, in vain. "Vera!"

The people pressed against her. A knot rose from her throat, forcing dream-tears to her eyes.

Rowan felt lost. Abandoned.

She took a few paces backward, and found herself in front of a carousel. The largest carousel in the world, so said the flyer in her hand. The cotton candy was nowhere to be seen.

"It's A Small World After All" was playing at the background, but the carousel remained unmoving.

Seated on one of the lacquered horses was a woman with ageless features. She held out a tangle of multicolored strings in her bony hands. Rowan looked up at her from the ground.

"Can you find the guiding thread, Rowan?" The woman's lips did not move.

She touched the tangle. The threads loomed over her, expanding into cable-thick lengths encompassing the skies. Colorful threads criss-crossed above her. They looped and enmeshed themselves on a thin, frayed white string, stretched taut against the blue loom.

At one section of the white thread, two faded strings dangled uselessly from their knots on the white. A silver thread ran parallel to the white, then wound itself around it.

Rowan reached out to the white thread. And briefly saw Vera, standing on the stone parapet.

* * *

Her eyelids flew open. 

She woke up, fully clothed, on her bed, shivering. Her mind raced, pondering on a number of ways to interpret her dream.

_Vera's alive, I know she is..._ Rowan thought, looking at the dried waterstains on her pillow, as she had cried herself to sleep the night before. _But where?  
_  
She glanced up at the wall clock above her bed. It was almost eight o' clock.

With a shriek, she made a beeline to the bathroom. _Damn, Eric's gonna freak if I don't meet him at the station by eight-thirty!  
_  
The faded Polaroid photograph of Vera lay on her bedside table.

* * *

When the Greyhound bus drove off, a sandy-haired man stood under the steel roof of the waiting shed, shifting the weight of his leather satchel from one shoulder to another. His blue eyes twinkled under the early light of the summer sun, when he caught sight of a redhead bobbing at one end of the road. 

Tossing the bag aside, Eric caught the panting woman in his arms. "Whoa, babe, why the rush? Miss me that much?" He looked deep into her eyes--large, green pellucid pools of expressiveness.

He loved his fianceé deeply. His artistic, bohemian Rowan.

She hugged him tightly, burying her face under the crook of his neck. Soon, Rowan began to cry, breaking down into small, choking sobs. She clung on the lapels of his baseball jacket, as he wrapped his arms around her small frame.

"Shh, Ro-babe, don't cry like that..." he soothed her. "I'm sorry at what had happened to Vera..." Eric stroked her pixie-short, red hair gently.

"It's just that...Eric, it's just horrible!" Rowan replied in muffled sobs. She looked up at him. "I feel so alone. Mamu and Dad are as bad as ever..."

He silenced her, by putting a long, graceful finger on her lips. "I know. Can we pass by the University before going back to my place? I've something to show you." His eyes had a strange look, a cross between serious and...elated.

Rowan frowned. "What? Can't you show it to me now? Which reminds me..." She unzipped her round leather handbag and rummaged through its contents. "I got this in the mail last night." She held out the Polaroid photograph to him, trying to suppress her sniffles.

His eyebrows quirked upwards, as he flipped the picture over and saw the date. "Woh--! This can't be a coincidence!" Eric returned the photo to Rowan, then started to fumble through his leather satchel. "You see, when I was in London to hunt for additional material for my book 'History of Forensics'...I found something quite amazing..."

He brought out a packet of large photographs. "You're familiar with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, right?"

Rowan rolled up her eyes. "Having a budding forensic psychologist and erstwhile historian for a boyfriend, of course."

"Then these will interest you..." He took out a photo and handed it to her. "This one is the only extant page from Dr. Watson's diary in the 1880's. The writing's illegible, can't be helped, but you can SEE something in there..."

A pregnant pause, then she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "...'we found a Ms. Vera Gale almost a week ago, by the Waterloo Bridge at midnight. A singular lady' ...The rest are faded and blotted."

They stood under the steel waiting shed in stunned silence.


	6. Chapter Six

_The plot thickens, and so does my schedule (end-of-semester work). Thank you to those who have sent encouraging words (daisychain1, BaskervilleBeauty, sailor-fussion, Unicorn Moon) for this story-effort. _

Which reminds me: the name Vera is derived from the Russian word 'viera', meaning 'faith', and Rowan is a lucky, magical tree for Druids. These are background info in order to enlighten the readers about the significance of the primary genre of the fic.

* * *

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Six

She had counted three. Three days since he left for Dover.

Vera stood behind the dark damask curtains, gazing out of the window. Observing the busy thoroughfare below. The hansom cabs and the genteel-looking pedestrians fascinated her. The surreal feeling of being transplanted from one reference frame to another never left her.

The confusion of idioms.

It was as if she stood on a bridge, seeing both ends. Or standing behind the compound eyes of a bee.

Fragmented viewpoints.

Unconsciously, she had been chewing on her nails and cuticles. Her fingertips were raw and pink, with ragged skin for cuticles. With a sigh, her hands moved to straighten the heavy folds of her dress.

* * *

The first day of his absense, Mrs. Hudson accompanied her everywhere in the building. Watching her with her crinkly hazel eyes like a mother hen. She even unearthed a set of suitable clothes for Vera--dark, collarless dresses with heavy skirts and plain, narrow sleeves--and tried to get her ward properly bustled and corseted. Vera ended the first day resisting the bustle, but willing to be laced up in a corset snugly, not tightly. 

The second day brought Dr. Watson and his little wife, ripely pregnant, down to visit her. He asked about how she felt, staying virtually alone with Mrs. Hudson, without Holmes' company, and checked her arms for her scars. Watson was an affable, warm person, along with his wife Mary, but Vera simply could not warm up to them.

"Has Holmes sent word from Dover?" Watson asked Vera.

She shook her head. "No. Mrs. Hudson also asked me that question. Has he contacted you, Doc?"

"No." He looked slightly crestfallen at the news.

* * *

_Their names are familiar..._ she thought on the third day, while watching a horse-drawn carriage roll by. _It's from Eric's book or something, I think...  
_  
She pulled herself away from the window. And started to inspect her surroundings closely. 

The shelves held thick books with tattered, well-worn covers. Diverse subjects on the sciences, literature and early forays into criminology. Scattered on the desks were photographs and hastily-scribbled notes pertaining to connection between crimes long past and the present.

It clicked.

_This takes the cake! He IS in Eric's historical forensics book...the first modern detective._

Vera moved towards the fireplace, looking at the jackknife stuck through the paper-pile on the mantelpiece with amusement. _Ro's boy would just kill me to be here..._ Her amusement then faded into sadness. _Wrong. To them, I'm dead, drowned in the river a hundred years from now...  
_  
The blade from the knife glinted wickedly at her morose thought. Beside it was a long rectangular case of red morocco. Absently, she raised the red leather cover.

And raised her eyebrows at the contents.

A small glass syringe and a half-empty vial.

Her train of thought began anew. _Insulin was discovered in the mid-20th century...so, that can't be it. _She lifted the syringe carefully._ It's not for injecting enzymes...but for..._

The label stuck on the vial read "7 percentcocaine".

She gave a small cynical smile to herself. _Different era, same problems. Really not my business._

She replaced the syringe on the case and snapped the cover back in place.

A muffled sound of a door being opened, then closed. Seventeen dull foot-treads, rising in intensity, stopping. The rattle of the doorknob.

Moments later, she stood face-to-face with the occupant, recently from Dover.

* * *

Holmes eyed Vera suspiciously. "You have been through my things, I see." His clenched hand tightened by a fraction around the handle of his valise. "I trust you found something of interest for you." 

She breathed in the air, suddenly tense. "Yes. I just wanted to know who you really are. It's payback after rummaging through my bag three days ago."

Vera did not break her eye contact with him, conscious about the fact that she may be in the wrong inspecting his belongings in the study. _Payback time, alright. Way to go, Vera-girl...why in the world should HE be sensitive anyway?  
_  
"What are your conclusions then, Ms. Gale?" The sardonic tone never left his voice, although a thin layer of ice can be detected. Behind the cool mask was his feeling of uncertainty over his female guest. Who may have discovered things which he had hidden away from people.

He loved unraveling other people's secrets, but not vice versa.

She gave a short laugh, shattering the ice between them. "Really, nothing much. I've the foresight of someone from a 'more advanced timeframe', Mr. Holmes." Waving her hand towards the desk and shelves, she continued, "You've got books, articles pertaining to solved and unsolved crimes. You recently arrived from a 'case' in Dover. Clearly, you are an investigator. A detective, but not directly connected to the Scotland Yard."

He nodded, the beginnings of a smile hovering over his lips. "How can you say that, Vera?"

"I told you, my 'foresight'. My sister's fiancé is supposed to write about the 'history of forensics', that is, the scientific way of investigating crimes, and it so happens that you're a seminal figure in that field. The 'Great Detective' of sorts. And besides, I found Lestrade's three-day old wire on top of your correspondences. He said that the Yard needs your advice." She moved her hand at the mantelpiece, and pointed at the jackknife.

"Excellent, Vera." The ice had melted into a thin mist. "What else can you add to your discourse about me?"

She broke her gaze from his, as she faced the chemical workbench. "You are a detective by profession, but a chemist at heart. Why would someone pay particular interest at my two reference books and NOT return them to me?" She had discovered that he took her two chemistry books from her bag and placed them on one of the bookshelves.

He laughed. "My heartfelt apologies for not informing you about the books."

"Instead, you gave me time to get some information about you. Fair exchange of data, Mr. Holmes, especially..." Vera's voice became soft.

Sad. "Especially for a lonely person like you." She flicked her green eyes at the red morocco case. "Excuse me, but I have to go to Mrs. Hudson now."

Vera left the room, without looking back at Holmes.


	7. Chapter Seven

_Correction: I should have added Underwater Owl in my short, short list of thanks. At any rate, updating "Truthseekers" is a slow, painful process for me (hectic schedules give me a headache). _

A word of warning: the following scenes in this chapter may be disturbing to others, although (contrary to what the readers may suspect about me), I am an über-cheerful person.

* * *

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Seven

_"And you reach out to touch me  
But I am in the twilight."_  
- bôa "Twilight"

Vera was dreaming.

A childhood nightmare, revisited.

She dove into the blue crystalline surface of the river. Below her, the rocks and underwater plants glowed in mottled ultramarine and sapphire light. She swam idly, her hair swirling with therushes and other aquatic weeds.

The current changed.

It began to pull her into the deep end of the river. The rocky bottom dipped sharply into the watery darkness.

The rushes wound themselves around her ankles, holding her fast below the surface. Vera struggled, her breath forming bubbles, losing precious air. She could not see the tendrils which trapped her.

She heard the rush of the current. Vera screamed-or tried to scream-and swallowed water instead.

_Mamu...Dad...Rowan...  
_  
The plants dragged her down into the deep.

* * *

She snapped her eyes open, shivering. Cold sweat drenched her, forming an icy sheet on her skin. The draft of night air was frigid, with the promise of hoarfrost, as it blew inside the room. 

The grandfather clock pealed a distant three o'clock several rooms away from hers. The street outside was silent, as the fog deadened the sound of clip-clops against the cobblestones.

She can breathe. She felt numb.

Abandoned and alone. Inside the ice sheet, constricting her. Squeezing her soul.

Hiding under the tangle of bedclothes, Vera cried herself to sleep. Stifling her sobs so as not to disturb anyone.

As if there was a living soul around her.

* * *

It was morning. 

After Vera had bathed and dressed, she presented herself in the dining room, carrying a breakfast tray. She hoped that Holmes would fail to notice the dark rings under her eyes.

Even though she had tumbled from one time frame to another, the dream still haunted her. Hunted her.

_Why?_ she asked herself, as she placed the tray on the set table. _Why?  
_  
_Tell him your dreams.  
_  
She shook her head. _He won't understand. Never will.  
_  
Absently rubbing her scarred arms under the long sleeves, she opened the door leading to the study. And paused.

And watched him plunge the steel needle through his arm.

And wonder how she expressionless she felt witnessing the scene. Seeing the thin man, seated on an armchair, injecting liquid death through his bloodstream.

_How can he understand me, if I can't understand myself?  
_  
"I guess you won't be needing breakfast, Holmes," Vera said, as she saw him slump against the overstuffed back of the armchair. She knew that it would take a minute or two before the drug sets in. Enough time to talk coherently.

He ignored her statement. "I am surprised at you. My friend Watson had expressed his displeasure at my habit."

"And I stay calm. I've done worse things than that. And, unlike Watson, I don't really give a damn. To myself and to others." She was surprised at the coolness of her reply. She really did not care, she tried to convince herself.

_It's the truth: I don't CARE. _

Liar. What about Rowan and Mamu?

They believe that I'm dead. Technically.

He grunted. The effect of the drug was setting in. "Leave me be, woman." He waved her off with long, trembling fingers.

* * *

No breakfast. No lunch. 

Possibly no supper, too.

Even with Mrs. Hudson for company, she felt truly alone. The invisible ice sheet enveloping her felt oppressive.

Vera needed to _FEEL._

She passed by the sitting room, then the study. He was still there, stretched out on the settee, with dilated grey eyes. He did not notice her presence, nor did he react when she plucked the jackknife from the mantelpiece and retired to her room.

Seating herself at the edge of the bed, Vera rolled up her sleeve, exposing her scarred wrist.

The knife was sharp, as it slid across her pale skin smoothly. Red blood beaded on the new slash, like a harsh cynical smile on her wrist.

She dispassionately watched her own blood snake down from her slashed wrist. As she lay down on her bed, she raised her arm over her face. Two darkly shining drops of blood fell on her cheeks. Dazed, she ignored the insistent knocking of the door. She closed her eyes instead, as more drops of blood fell on her face. _So be it... _she thought, _My only chance of escape...  
_  
She was oblivious to the squeak of the opening door's hinges, nor the exclaimation of horror.

"What the deuce are you doing?!" Holmes demanded as he yanked her by her bleeding wrist. His words fell on deaf ears for Vera had fallen into a stupor.

He dragged her out of the room, his grip firm around the wound. When they reached the study, he pushed her down on a wicker chair and began to bandage her wrist with his pocket handkerchief. No blood seeped through.

Her green eyes remained dully opaque while she watched him quickly wind the cloth and staunch the bleeding. When he reached out to wipe the blood drops from her face with his long fingers, she looked away.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly.

"I think I should be the one asking that question. Why did you slash your wrist?" His gray eyes probed deep into hers. Any trace of his drug-induced dreams were completely non-existent on his face.

"I feel trapped...my body's a shell I can't break. Every time I cut myself, I taste a bit of freedom."

"Freedom that you would pay with your life?"

She nodded. He still held her bandaged wrist tightly.

"When you said you did not give a damn to yourself and others, you lied. why would you care to feel freedom if you, Vera, did not care at all?"

"You should ask that same question to yourself, Holmes."


	8. Chapter Eight

_ARGH! Somehow, this chapter (or scenes for this one) kept on nagging me for the whole week._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_Chapter Eight  
  
He sent her to bed, after making her drink a cup of tea laced with tincture of valerian. After that episode with the jackknife, he could not take chances. With women, who are as unstable as Vera, he could never trust them completely. 

A troubled woman is bad. An intelligent, troubled woman is worse.

He leaned against the doorframe, clutching at the red morocco case. For the first time, he felt..._affected_. His grey eyes took in the austere furnishings of his own personal haven, as he sorted out the logic of the day's events.

_There is no logic at all._

That thought disturbed him.

His mind replayed his previous dialogue with Vera.

_"Why would you care to feel freedom if you, Vera, did not care at all?" _

"You should ask that same question to yourself, Holmes."

As he sat down at the edge of his bed, her quiet voice echoed in his memory bank.

_"You should ask that same question to yourself, Holmes."  
_  
His long fingers flipped the morocco case open and retrieved the half-empty vial. He raised it to the dim light of the gas lamp beside the bed, tinting the clear liquid a warm yellow.

The next thing he did, which he could not account for after a long time, was to dash the vial against the dark hessian wall, listening to the muted tinkle of broken glass.

* * *

Vera slept fitfully, as ghosts of unremembered nightmares hovered at the edge of her consciousness. 

She had the vague sensation of being held aloft, in the blank air, by strings intricately knotted and wound around her arms and ankles. She breathed in the scentless air of dreams.

She opened her dream-eyes and saw that she was indeed held up in the blank sky by multicolored threads. Tugging them, she discovered that they were knotted tightly against her skin.

Vera was suspended in mid-air. Beyond the reach of human hands.

Below her was a stone bridge, spanning across the blue expanse of the river. As she craned her head to see beyond the bridge, she saw circular ripples, violent eddies on the water's surface. A thin hand shot out, then sank into the river.

Someone was drowning.

* * *

As she opened her eyes, Vera bolted upright on her bed, gasping for air. The last toll of the grandfather clock faded into the silent night air. 

She looked down at her hands. The handkerchief wound around her wrist was still intact. Kicking off the blankets, she reassured herself that there was no strings knotted around her ankles.

Her loose black hair hung damply to her shoulders. As she gathered it clumsily around her head, something struck her.

The blank stillness of the night.

Vera silently got out of the bed, wrapping the dressing robe tightly to her thin frame. Taking a few tentative steps to the door, she pushed it open and looked into the narrow corridor. At one end was the heavy oak door leading to the study. At the other end was bathroom door.

The door across hers was ajar.

She strained her ears to listen through the silence. The sound of regular breathing was absent, sending prickles of alarm down her nape.

With bated breath, she entered his sanctum.

* * *

The room was as austere as its owner, and as cluttered. Her foot bumped against something soft and bulky. Reaching down, her touch revealed a bunch of haphazardly piled bedclothes, slightly musty. 

Groping in the dark, Vera shuffled her way inside, one hand outstretched. The dark melted into vague shapes, as she could finally distinguish a dresser, a wall closet. Leaning against the closet corner was her old nylon knapsack.

Faint moonlight shone from the window, illuminating the bed and its occupant.

He was asleep. Or appeared to be asleep. Beads of sweat clustered on his broad forehead.

And he was not breathing.

_Oh, sh-t! Sleep apnea?!  
_  
She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Holmes, wake up! Wake up, please!" His head only shifted to one side.

No sign of life.

Panic rose within her. She checked his pulse, finding it weakly throbbing against her fingers. But he was not breathing.

Without thinking, she gave him a slap across his cheek. "Dammit, wake up!"

A shudder of breath, as his eyelids flew open. Before Vera could sigh in relief, she noticed, in a span of a millisecond, that the grey eyes looking up at her was far from relieved.

She recognized madness. Anger.

Fear.

* * *

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" 

In a sudden burst of violence, he rammed her against the hessian-covered wall. Vera choked back her cry of pain, crumpling down on the floor. Her bare hands felt the tiny glass shards pricking against her clammy palm.

_The vial...but why?  
_  
_Cold turkey..._ she thought, watching the lanky figure before her stumble back on his bed. His hands gripped the sides of his head as he shivered.

She recognized all the symptoms. A memory rose unbidden into her psyche.

_Rowan gripped her wrists as the attendants tied her arms to the gurney. "Dammit, Ve! This is for your own good!" she hissed into her ear. _

"Leave me alone, b-tch..." Vera yelled at her sister. "You don't have the right!" She struggled against her bonds, as the orderlies wheeled her away into the isolation room. "Give it back to me! The meth!"

Before the doors closed before her, she saw Rowan mouth, "I'm sorry, Ve...but it's for the best."

Pushing herself up against the wall, Vera crept quietly towards him. "It's just me. Vera." Taking him by the shoulders, she rolled him to lie on his back. "Please, be calm. Stay calm. Everything's going to be fine..."

He stared at her with uncomprehending, mad eyes. Silent.

She carried on a soothing one-sided conversation. "It's just a bad dream, Holmes, a bad dream. Close your eyes and stay calm."

And, just as sudden as the outburst, he promptly slipped back into unconsciousness. She relaxed her grip, slumping back on the floor in relief. Curling herself in a fetal position, she rocked herself back and forth, humming herself softly to sleep.

* * *

"Vera, Vera... wake up, it's morning already." 

Someone was shaking her, waking her. It was Watson, bent over her with a genuinely concerned look on his face. "Vera, why in the heavens are you sleeping on the floor? In this room?"

She looked up at him with bleary eyes. "Watson...?" She blinked back her tears of relief. "Watson!" Flinging her arms around his neck, her words gushed forth, undammed, "I'm so glad that you're here...he's very, very sick right now. I woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, then I felt that there was something wrong, then I checked him in his room. Found that he wasn't breathing, I panicked and all...tried to wake him, then..."

"Hush now, Vera..." he soothed her, stroking her head gently. "I know. I saw the broken vial in here this morning. He's suffering from sudden withdrawal from the blasted narcotic, but he'll survive."

"How did you...?"

"I arrived here a while ago. When Mrs. Hudson opened the front door, she informed me that you and Holmes were not awake yet, which was odd, as both of you are not late-morning persons. The first room I checked was this. I found the vial over there--" He pointed at the wall. "--and you on the floor."

Sadness reflected on his soft brown eyes as he shifted his gaze towards the sleeping, shivering occupant on the bed, then back at Vera. "I am terribly sorry for what had happened to you, Vera. A woman like you should not be burdened by this...sight."

"S'okay, Watson." Getting up from the hard floor, she showed him her bandaged wrist. "I owe him a lot of things."

* * *


	9. Chapter Nine

_A/N: So far, chapter 8 got mixed reviews (yes, J.K. Ellis, you have a point; by using the overused cheese plot device of overreacting to the habit, it made the chapter over-emotional rather than intellectual, an intentional backslide, but until there.) If you, dear reader, think that that's the start of the romanza angle, you're wrong! :D BB, thanks for appreciating Vera's character dev't, as she must live up to her name, somehow. _

But for now, let us see how Rowan is faring at the loss of her sister.

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Nine

Rowan emerged from the abandoned backstage room, holding a creased manila folder in her hands. As she strode to the polished wooden stage, the dappled summer light from an unshuttered window served as her spotlight.

Illuminated dust motes floated by, cheered on by the humming of insects outside the university theater hall. Her red-gold hair glowed and flickered like living flames.

Glancing once at the folder, she tossed it aside, raising her voice to address a phantom crowd:

_"Good my lord,  
You have begot me, bred me, loved me. I  
Return those duties back as are right fit,  
Obey you, love you, and most honor you.  
Why have my sisters husbands if they say  
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,  
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry  
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.  
Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,  
To love my father all."  
_  
Rowan's rich, sonorous voice echoed through the empty auditorium, from the stage to the farthest alcoves of the hall.

A pause.

The silence was broken by the sound of the broad entrance-door flinging open, revealing a tall, graceful female silhouette against the bright summer sunlight. Rowan squinted, as the silhouette moves into the dusty, shadowy light of the hall.

Mamu.

Shocked, Rowan's knees buckled below her, staring at her impeccably-dressed mother standing in the middle aisle. Kneeling, she peered closer as Mamu approached the stage, her grey-flecked red head tilted up imperiously at her.

Mother and daughter stared at each other, expressive green eyes against icy blue ones.

"I can see myself twenty years from now," Rowan said airily. "I can see that I'll be better looking than you, Mamu."

Her sarcasm was not lost to her mother. "Crow's feet would definitely look better on you, my dear."

"Sure, Ma. At least I give them character, as an actress." Rowan rolled her eyes. "Whad'ya want, Ma? Like, it's been almost a month since I asked you to come here."

"Well, I'm here now." Mamu fluidly shrugged her shoulders. "At least. I had to iron out matters with Harris. You know that."

Rowan let out a sigh crossed with a hiss of annoyance, hopping down from the edge of the stage. Towering over her mother in her stiletto boots, she glowered at her. Mamu, in turn, did not flinch under her daughter's green glare.

"Right. Harris, our family lawyer, how could I not know that?" Her tone was icy. "Divorce first, daughters later."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Ro-child..."

"Don't 'Ro-child' me, Mamu! You're very much aware how you and Dad pushed Vera to the limit!" Rowan screamed, eyes glittering dangerously as she clenched and unclenched her hands. "What's more, you left-me-ALONE to deal with it!"

Mamu quailed at her daughter's angry outburst, averting her gaze from her. Her ice had melted into a muddy puddle in her heart. "I-I'm sorry about that, darling..." she murmured.

Rowan continued to rant. "It wouldn't have happened if you told me first. Your letter was addressed to her only. Why? Are you that spiteful towards her? I swear you did that deliberately!"

Her mother wore a smug expression to hide her appalled feelings for Rowan. "Vera wanted the truth. SHE was the one who saw that...smarty-tart of your father, Vivian Hsu, doing some hanky-panky in the embassy in Boston. Believe me, I was aware of it the whole time, so the divorce papers were already ready to be signed."

She gaped at her. "You were already planning to divorce Dad before Ve knew...?"

Mamu nodded primly, sitting down on one of the folded-down theater seats. "It was an impossible marriage, Rowan. God knows I tried to keep it afloat. You see, after he had that affair with Vera's mother, I cannot trust him. I was aware that he still had his flings whenever we moved from one country to another."

"You...you didn't try to fight for it?"

"How could I? I'm tired of it anyway. Ignoring his sins won't give me closure. Besides, there's you and Vera to think about. You, most of all."

Rowan shook her head sadly. "Not me. Vera."

"A part of my closure was to tell her the truth about her identity, that she's just an illegimate child in our family."

"Yeah, right, look at what happened next. You told her that when her relationship with Sparks was already rocky. Great timing, Ma."

"I had to tell her that because Sparks was already married! I told her that she's just like her birth mother, your dad's half-Japanese home-wrecker."

"You told her that out of spite. Damn, you have a nice way of putting it in words for a linguist. Do you know what happened next, Ma? OK, it did have the desired effect: she dumped Sparks. The next thing she did was to overdose herself with speed! Ma, she took meth!"

She watched Mamu turn pale. "Mamu, that was the first time she tried to kill herself. And where were you or Dad? Nowhere near me or her! I was the ONE who took her to the hospital for rehab!"

"You...didn't tell me about that..." Tears brimmed from her blue eyes.

"Because you didn't care! You had your little war with Dad, looking for closure for yourself." Rowan's voice was verging on the hysterical. "I had to handle her all by myself. Thank heavens, Eric was with me during those times."

"Goodness, Rowan, I'm sorry!" Mamu clapped her hands to her face to hide her anguish. "I didn't know that that affected both of you."

"Ma, there are many ways in presenting the truth. That way you chose for her destroyed her self-esteem."

"I'm so sorry, so sorry..."

"And now, do you know that the police first suspected me of pushing Ve over the bridge?! How could I do that to the only sister I have? That's why I'm so f-cking angry at you!" She ended her rant with a rough kick at one of the empty chairs beside Mamu.

Mamu was unable to contain her tears. "Oh, my babies, my babies...I'm so sorry...Rowan and Vera..."

Rowan was moved by her mother's tears, softening the hard knot of anger in her chest. Controlling her voice, she asked, "Ma, I know you meant well for Ve, but I just want to know...you said those things to her out of spite. Why?"

"Whenever I see Ve, I am reminded of your father's infidelity. Except for her eyes, she looks more like her mother than him."

"But, Mamu, you loved Vera like your own...right?"

"I taught myself to love her like my own flesh and blood. Damn it, Ro, I tried my best!"

Kneeling before Mamu, she took her own mother in her arms and cried. "Oh, mother! If you only knew...how Ve and I feel. If you only knew."

"I wish, if I can only turn back time, she'd be here, alive. Ro, I miss her, too. I owe her an apology."

Rowan stiffened. In a muffled voice, she said, "Ma, I have something to show you." Disengaging herself from the embrace, she fumbled for something in her pockets,and fished out the old Polaroid. "After she disappeared, I found this in my mail, addressed to me."

Mamu stared at the photograph. "Vera...? How could...she...? Goodness, London, 1889?"

"Eric found something related to that while looking for material for his book in London. He's back there to investigate more..."

Their conversation was interrupted by a lilting female voice. "Look at that, the ex and my future step-child! Fancy seeing you here."

Mother and child glared at the petite figure blocking the bright light at the theater's entrance, Vivian Hsu. She stood there, unmoving, her haughty black eyes fixed at them, her hands holding a bulky, yellow package.

Vivian smirked. "No hello or hi from you two? Maybe that's too much to be expected."

"What do you want, step-MOM?" Rowan sneered.

"Nothing. The postman was waiting outside the theater with a parcel for you from Eric." She approached the two women, walking with a strangely sinuous gait. "Left you for London, I see. And didn't bring you along."

"It's none of your business, Viv. Just give me that parcel."

"Of course, Ro-CHILD. Catch!" Tossing it, she quickly spun around and walked towards the door. "By the way, you're invited to my wedding this winter."

Catching the package, Rowan retorted, "I hope you get chilblains, b-tch." When Vivian left, she tore the package open--a thick, worn journal with yellowed worm-eaten edges, and a neatly folded letter from Eric were inside.

The letter went: "Rowan, read the journal. I found it among the other odds and ends in Watson's dispatch box. Quite interesting. Love, Eric."

* * *


	10. Chapter Ten

_It's a slow, slow update--that I apologize--but I've been trying to revamp some minor ideas for the chapter before writing it down. Anyway, I should get down to work with this thing._

* * *

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Ten

Vera held her new fountain pen, its gold nib gleaming in its newness, poised exactly above the first page of the leather-bound journal. A fraction of a second passed before the nib descended and touched the clean, unmarked sheet.

_10 November 1888. London._

_Dear Rowan. I hope that someday you or Eric would find this letter/diary of sorts. So many factors are involved, including luck, but I'm relying on hope and luck._

_Sis, it's so hard for me to explain (for now) how I got here. But, don't worry, I'm still alive and well, thanks to Holmes and Watson. Don't blink now--their names are really Holmes and Watson--I can imagine Eric gaping like a fish when he sees this, if ever he finds this in your--our--time._

_Ten days have passed since I came (or fell?) here. Within that time-span, there were drastic changes...caused by my presence. I don't know whether to feel guilty about disturbing the status quo, because I was also affected... _

* * *

It was the missing jackknife which sent a shiver of apprehension down Watson's spine.

Earlier, Mrs. Hudson told him how Vera was faring for the past two days. "The poor girl looks so haunted. Thin as a waif and too quiet for my taste, but she keeps a stiff upper-lip." She shook her head, clucking like a mother hen. "Vera worries me, Dr. Watson, more than Mr. Holmes."

Seeing the empty space on the mantelpiece increased Watson's anxiety about Vera. Worried, he hurriedly went into the flat's inner quarters and stood facing the door of his old bedroom. He rapped his knuckle against the close-grained door. "Vera? Are you alright in there?" he asked, his throat dry with worry.

He received no answer. Placing a hand on the doorknob, Watson said, "Vera, if you won't answer me, you leave me no choice but to enter your room." His hand began to turn the knob.

The door at the end of the short corridor opened and closed quickly, the bolts clicking softly. That sound was overlaid by Vera's voice. "Watson, what are you doing? I just took a bath..."

Startled, Watson released the knob and looked at her with relief. "Oh, thank goodness, you didn't try to..." He paused, as he scrutinized her form closely. "Good God! Why, Vera, why?" he spluttered out in disbelief.

Clad in a thick flannel dressing gown, Vera stood before him, holding the knife in one hand and a long, thick coil of black hair in another hand. The ragged edges of her damp hair brushed against her shoulders, framing her pale, oval face fresh from a bath. "Why what, watson? You mean this?" She held the dark coil towards him.

He was appalled at what he saw. "Gods, Vera, you could have at least let Mrs. Hudson cut your hair with a proper pair of scissors, not a knife!" he exclaimed, his worry glossed over by a hint of irritation and relief. "And I thought that..."

"That I'd hurt myself? No, Watson, I'm over that...besides, I'm supposed to be dead, right?" Holding the knife by the blade, Vera presented the hilt to him. "Here, take it. I'll go to Mrs. Hudson to fix the edges...the knife isn't quite good in cutting hair neatly."

He gave a small chuckle. "But, Vera, it's quite a shame you sacrificed your hair."

"I have no regrets. It's about time I changed my hairstyle. There are so many things I want to change for myself..."

* * *

_Actually, this journal was Watson's idea in the first place. He viewed it as one form of therapy for me. Therapy for what? I don't know exactly...he's simply a well-meaning soul. He had seen my old scars on my arms, the family picture in my wallet. Also, he had this idea of you or Eric finding this..._

* * *

Vera caressed the fine leather cover of the journal. "Oh, I really don't know what to say, Watson. Thanks." She looked up at him with grateful, but questioning, eyes. "What am I to do with this?"

Watson eased himself down on an armchair facing Vera, who tried to curl herself up comfortably on the settee, tucking the bulky skirts around her. His amiable brown eyes twinkled. "Well, to begin with...you can write something in there. It's a positive form of emotional release, I believe."

She opened the journal to the first blank page. "Emotional release, huh?" she replied with a shade of irony in her tone. "Better than the quick action of blades."

"At least you are not a hopeless case, unlike Holmes." Watson smiled ruefully. "I simply hope that after he wakes from his coma, he won't touch that insidious thing again." His last statement left a bitter tang in his mouth.

"I think he won't, Watson."

"I hope so, too."

Vera stared at the blank page. "Watson, honestly...I don't know what to write down in here. I never kept diaries nor had the patience to write one."

"Hm. You can write to your sister. Perhaps address it to her, even though it is indeed a one-sided correspondence," he suggested, leaning forward from the chair, as he looked at her closely. "Just try to write."

"But what if this would never reach her hands? I'd be writing in vain!"

He laughed at her exclamation. "Believe me, it won't be in vain. You might find something worthwhile in the exercise...and it's never wrong to hope. Rowan will be able to read your journal."

* * *

"Writing to your sister, I presume?"

The pen suddenly stopped from its fluid travel across the paper. Vera raised her head sharply from the desk, fixing her green eyes at the grey, lanky figure bending over the her.

"You're awake. Finally," she said, scrutinizing the thin, angular profile before her. "It's late for breakfast, too early for lunch. And, did I permit you to read what I'm writing?" Vera capped the pen with a sharp click.

"No, but the page is open," he retorted with his usual sardonic tone.

"Holmes, at least your humor hasn't changed." For the first time, Vera let her eyes reflect her smile. "As thin and dry as you are. Drier, perhaps."

"One thing immutable in this world is change, Vera." Holmes acknowledged her smile with a tentative pat on her hands, which were folded on top of the desk.

* * *


	11. Chapter Eleven

_"What happened to the Dover case?"...I will bring it up in here, well, at least the pertinent details about the case. Be glad, though: I just wore myself out with the soap-opera details for the previous chapters, so expect a slightly different Vera. Many thanks to the reviewers: BaskervilleBeauty, J.K. Ellis, Underwater Owl, Estriel, Cicci Green, Mlle. Amethyste...and georgie d (yes, "write in white heat, edit in cold blood!")..._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear  
_

Chapter Eleven

Somewhere in a small hamlet in Northumberland, dusk was falling.

For Peter Mayhew, it had already fallen.

He was considered a hermit by village standards. A madman for some, a heretic to others--who clearly espoused orthodox views on spirituality, to the point of narrow-mindedness--but a sage and savior to a few who relied on his herbs and incantations.

Mayhew had just opened the wicker gate to his hovel when he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. "Peter Mayhew?" a voice droned behind him.

He squinted up at his visitor, a swarthy, stocky man with gnarled brown hands. The fading light cast uncertain shadows on his face, shading the eyes and highlighting the weather-beaten angles of his cheeks and strong chin. Beside the man was a petite woman, clad in black, her face covered by a veil. Except for her eyes, which glinted red.

Mayhew grunted. "Yea. Who may you be?"

The black-clad woman spoke. "Peter Mayhew, blessed are you among the others. Those who shun you shall exalt you."

The strange words had a negative effect on Mayhew. His mouth ran dry, and his jaw locked. His legs refused to move. He tasted the metallic flavor of fear, in its purest form.

The swarthy man wrapped his hands around Mayhew's head. With one swift movement, he snapped his neck and let the body fall on the ground with a soft thud.

The woman brought out a small knife from the folds of her dress and ran it through Mayhew's neck. As the blood dribbled on the ground, she wiped the blade on the black soil. "You are Earth's child. She is pleased with your sacrifice."

She nodded at her companion, who then lifted the body on to his wide shoulders. The two entered Mayhew's hut, as the last ray of the sunset faded from the horizon.

* * *

"Holmes, I want to ask you something..." Vera leaned against the edge of the chemical workbench, as she observed him pipette out a few drops of reagent into a quarter-full test tube.

He let out a thoughtful hum. The colorless solution in the tube had flushed red-brown. "An expected result," he murmured to himself. "Drugged with morphine, then shot point-blank at the temple..."

"And the signatures on the suicide note and will are forgeries..." she added, waving two damp paper chromatography strips in front of him. "The ink from the victim's fountain pen doesn't match from the ink samples of the note and will. Different pigment profiles."

He gave her a dry smile. "Your lecture notes on chromatographic methods are quite useful. It is unfortunate that this technique will not be discovered until a decade from now."

"Chromatography is part of routine lab analysis. Combined with chromogenic methods, like the classical test for opium you did earlier, hundreds of different compounds can be isolated and identified." She lay the strips on the wooden bench beside the test tube rack. "Besides, the colored spots look pretty."

"Science grows in leaps and bounds...imagine, one can determine the actual structure of a compound from its reaction in a magnetic field!" Holmes straightened himself from his bent laboratory-posture. "Your books and notes are beyond my time...I have to thank Lady Fortuna for you." He shrugged off the chemical-stained smock, draping it on his arm.

She took the smock and neatly folded it. "Holmes, I want to ask you something," she said, and paused. As he nodded, she continued, "How was Dover? Did you solve the case?"

His smooth brow creased slightly. "Dover...ah, Dover. It has some singular features which I hope Lestrade would not overlook. Why did you ask?"

_Why did I ask, anyway?_ She pondered about the matter for a short while._ I don't know...but I feel that there must be a connection somewhere..._

"Just curious. Ever since you came back from Dover, you didn't mention it."

_An opera singer named Ginny Ford died at the same time I came here._

"Really?" His eyebrow quirked upward. "If my memory serves me correctly, Ms. Ford was supposed to sing in a Covent Garden concert last Hallowe'en, but she disappeared on the twenty-seventh. Her personal assistant, Mark Evans, told Scotland Yard that she was last seen hailing a hansom down the Strand..."

She folded her arms across her chest. Her green eyes glimmered thoughtfully. "Well, why didn't Mark Evans accompany her in the hansom?" she asked, tilting her head sideways.

"Patience, Vera. According to Evans' account, a heavily-tinted four-wheeler immediately halted in front of Ms. Ford. Two masked men quickly alighted from the cab, grabbed Ms. Ford and took her with them. The Strand at that time was crowded, which hindered Evans from reaching her on time."

"She was kidnapped, then. No ransom note?"

"None. The cast of the opera was waiting for one, but they received nothing. Last November first, two fishermen were walking down the rocky coastline of Dover when they found her naked body at the foot of a chalk cliff. Her neck was broken, her body methodically slashed and stabbed at her vital points."

Vera wrinkled her nose. "That's...bad. She was thrown off the cliff..."

"But there were indications that Ms. Ford was already dead before the criminals threw her down the overhang. They snapped her neck--as I've noted from the indentations of fingers on her face--before bleeding her." His normally cool countenance momentarily crumpled into a small grimace. "She was exsanguinated."

Her eyes widened with horror. "They collected her blood?"

He nodded. "At the top of the ledge, Lestrade found two rust-colored circular marks, corresponding to the bottoms of the buckets. When I looked closer, the marks had small masses of coagulated blood."

_I think I'm going to be sick..._ she groaned inwardly. _I can tolerate seeing my own blood, but..._ "Why did they kill her?" she gasped weakly, feeling queasy.

"Ritual murder. The police constables found this tattooed on her forehead." He drew the symbol on an extra piece of rough paper which Vera used for her ink-pigment profile. "They used henna for the tattoo... You may perhaps have seen this before."

She looked at the symbol. "That's the alchemical sign for Air."

"Which brings me to the reason why I was asked by Lestrade to go to Dover. Thirteen days before Ms. Ford's death, a Mrs. Penelope Meier was found burned to death two blocks away from her home in Notting Hill. Her husband Johann Meier hired me to investigate her death, and to clear his name because the Yard suspected him of committing parricide. I found the same slashes and stab wounds. Her neck was also broken, and her forehead was tattooed by the symbol of Fire. There was no evidence against Herr Meier."

"Two deaths by ritual murder..."

"Then you 'arrived', so to speak, exactly on the same time the second murder was committed. It is very intriguing." His thin lips formed a half-smile, emphasizing the irony of his statement.

As Vera opened her mouth to speak, a distant clanging of the doorbell stopped her unformed words. She straightened herself from leaning against the workbench. And dusted her worn, grey skirt. "I'll go see who's at the door."

"Very well. I'm expecting Herr Meier himself today."

* * *

When Vera opened the door, she unconsciously gaped at what she saw.

An impeccably-dressed man in his thirties stood before her. His sad, clear-cut face matched his dark mourning attire, uncreased despite the man was carrying a small girl in his arms.

His daughter.

The child resembled him in hair--honey brown with red highlights--and eyes, which were intensely Teutonic blue. She was also dressed in mourning, in a black pinafore and black ribbons on her hair. She stared at Vera with all the gravity and wisdom of an eight-year-old.

"Good morning," the man addressed Vera, favoring her with a sad, tired smile.

For the first time in her life, Vera was embarrassed. She gave herself a once-over--a long, grey skirt with a torn hem at the back; an off-white linen blouse with a rumpled collar; a faded brown knit sweater, nubby and threadbare at the elbows, found in Watson's old closet--and muttered something. She tried to smooth back her shoulder-length hair, which ended up sticking out in different directions.

The little girl gave her a gap-toothed smile. "You look funny, miss," she lisped. "Right, Daddy?"

Vera's face flushed at the girl's words. "I...e...schade..."

The man before her looked stunned. "You speak...? Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"In his rooms." She bade him to step inside. "He is expecting you."

"Danke schön." He bowed low, clutching his child closer. The pair ascended the stairs.

As she watched them enter the rooms, the man's last words hit her. _Danke schön...thank you._

_Schade..._

_Sie sprechen...? Wo ist Herr Holmes?_

_In seinen Zimmern. Er erwartet Sie._

_Danke schön._

She had automatically used German in front of the visitor. _Clearly, he's Herr Meier..._ she thought. She touched her hair again and remembered her feeling of embarrassment. _Then...I should go and change in Mrs. Hudson's quarters!_

Vera hurried into the landlady's domain, her panic coloring her face.

* * *

"Is there really no news about the murderers?" Johann Meier asked Holmes, while watching his daughter swing her legs dangling from the wicker chair. "I have read about Fräulein Ford's death in the papers..."

Holmes lighted his clay pipe, observing his visitors. "Yes and no. What is clear is that your wife's and Ms. Ford's deaths are interconnected. I suspect ritual murder, but I cannot definitely pinpoint who could be the possible suspects." He puffed once, then twice. "As of now, I am not aware of any cult actively working here in London or elsewhere."

"Then do so, Herr Holmes! Find the cult responsible for my wife's death!" Meier exclaimed. His strident voice startled the girl, who immediately tucked in her legs underneath her. She fixed her scared blue eyes on her Daddy.

Seeing the reaction of the child, he soothed her, "I'm sorry, Marlene...Daddy's not angry...just sad, scared and impatient..." Meier picked her up and hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry, 'Lene."

Child Marlene blinked back her tears. "I just want Mummy back... Will she come back from Heaven, Daddy?"

Meier was speechless. He shook his head, tucking the child's head against the crook of his neck. Marlene whimpered, "Why did Mummy die? I wanna know."

"Marlene, your Mummy died because bad people killed her," Holmes replied quickly. He gave Meier a short, sharp nod. "Rest assured, Herr Meier, I will proceed further with the case."

"Vielen Dank." Meier paused, then asked, "By any chance, do you know who the young lady is...? The one who opened the door?"

"Of course. She's Ms. Vera Gale...which reminds me..." His head jerked towards the door.

Vera was standing there. She had changed her appealing (Appealing...? Holmes suddenly thought, frowning a bit.) but dishevelled looks for a more prim and proper one--a neater, newer-looking dress and combed hair. The expression on her face was neutral. To Holmes' keen observation, it was a studied neutrality.

She bowed low. "Yes, I'm Vera Gale. You must be Herr Johann Meier."

Meier returned her bow. "I see. You speak excellent German."

She blushed at his compliment. "Ah. I spent part of my childhood in München. My maternal grandfather hails from Köln."

He approached her, carrying his precious cargo. "Pardon me for being forward, but, my child Marlene needs someone to teach her German...can you be her language tutor?"

The offer took her by surprise. She glanced at Holmes, who nodded silently, puffing his pipe. "Well...why not?"

"Excellent!" Meier put Marlene down on her feet, and fumbled for something in one of his coat's inner pockets. He fished out a small, rectangular piece of cardboard. "Here is my card. Can you start tomorrow?"

"The fifteenth? Yes." She took the proffered card.

The child looked up at Vera solemnly. "You'll teach me how to speak like Daddy?"

Vera patted her head. "Yes, Marlene...see you tomorrow, then."

* * *

When the father and daughter left, Holmes asked, "Will you do me a small favor, Vera?"

"What?" Both of them were watching the pair hail a cab under a gentle drizzle. Meier wrapped the small form of Marlene in his black greatcoat.

The cab rolled off, bearing their somber passengers.

"Keep your eyes and ears open for clues while working in Meier's house."

"Okay..."

"And..." A look of worry flitted in his grey eyes, then disappeared. Vera noticed it, but did not comment on the abrupt change in his expression.

"And what?"

"Be careful."


	12. Chapter Twelve

_A/N: Merry Christmas!Therefore I should have more time to update (I hope) the story. I've been a very busy girl lately, and the only (little) spare time I have was spent on reading books (reference books and Stephen King, hehe). Meanwhile: congratulations, BB, for TGH. I am all...fluffed...out.

* * *

_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twelve

Mary Watson, neé Morstan, sat across the café's table with a perfectly delightful smile for her not-so-new acquaintance. "My, my! It's quite a surprise to accidentaly run into you at the Strand, Vera!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands on her curved, ripe abdomen. She felt a soft kick underneath. "Even the babe is happy to meet you!"

Vera returned a small, aloof smile. "Indeed. I was just enjoying a walk after a really trying day..." She rubbed her right temple with two of her fingers.

"You're a working girl, I see. A governess, perhaps?" Mary's voice was soothing, gentle. "The children can be very...naughty at times."

"No, not really. A German language tutor. I...we ended the 'session' earlier than usual because 'Lene had a temper tantrum with the housekeeper."

"Why, that's not a real problem, isn't it?"

"Uh-m..." Vera's neutral countenance wavered from bored to rueful. "I lost my temper over her loss of temper. I don't have a knack with children."

"Oh." Mary smiled over her cup of tea. "We all have our weaknesses..."

Vera did not reply, idly picking her plate of petit-four while watching the sea of London's humanity flow outside from the café window.

The short silence was broken by Mary. "Ms. Gale, you are a lovely lady...do you know that?" She sipped her tea, her ghost of a smile floating at the corners of her mouth.

Vera blinked at her comment. "Huh? Pardon me?"

"John was right...you carry an exotic air which makes you...rather attractive. Especially your eyes." Mary crumbled her buttered scone with her fingers. "I wonder, if Holmes will be able to..."

"Stop it!" Vera's large oriental eyes flashed green lightning, startling her companion. "I don't like the direction this conversation is going..."

Non-plussed, Mary continued, "I was supposed to say that how would Holmes protect you from unnecessary attention. He is unconventional enough to accept you as Watson's replacement to share his rooms, not to mention a beautiful stranger like you."

"Oh. Sorry." She lowered her green eyes. Her pale face flushed slightly. _Ve-, temper, temper..._ "I still feel out-of-sorts..."

"It's nothing... I must say, I love your eyes..."

"I'm a half-breed, Mary."

"Pardon me?" Her interest was piqued at Vera's statement. "Half-breed?"

Vera looked back at the London's sea of humanity. "I was wrong. I'm a quarter-breed. My birth mother was the half-breed, German and Japanese. Nadeshiko Meier, daughter of Hermann Meier, a novelist, and Chiaki, a Kyoto geisha. People say I look like her, my mother, except for the eye-color, which comes from my father. My mother's eyes were brown-green...at least from the photographs..."

"Birth mother? What happened to her?"

Vera's voice was clipped. "She died. After giving birth to me, she died. Mamu was my adoptive mother. She raised me with my older half-sister, Rowan." She gave a small sigh. "That's all I can say, Mary. It's...painful to remember."

Mary reached out and touched her hand. "I understand. Let us talk of other things..."

_You don't._

Vera peered absent-mindedly over the steaming cup of tea, listening to Mary's soothing talk about the weather and other sundry things. She gave a start when she heard Mary say, "Have you read the newspaper today, Vera? The poor child..."

"What headlines? What child?" Vera bit her lip as she espied the folded newspaper in front of her.

In big, bold letters: JAPANESE AMBASSADOR'S CHILD KIDNAPED!

She checked the date: 26th November. Suddenly, she felt a chill draft running down her spine.

"Vera, are you alright?"

At the edge of Vera's peripheral vision, a butterfly flitted past the window, its sun-yellow color a stark contrast to the moving grey crowd. A black-gloved hand caught it.

"Vera, calm down...do you see anything?"

Remaining deaf to Mary's concerned voice, she stood up in a green-eyed daze. A few crumbs from her petit-four dropped from her skirt. Vera picked up her small leather 'schoolmarm' portfolio and purse with shaking hands. "M-Mary...thank you for the tea, but I must leave now...so sorry..."

She turned towards the window, and spotted the owner of the black-gloved hand.

A pair of fair-haired--the color of bleached bone--ladies waved at Vera. One of them blew something from her open hand. Yellow-gold dust scattered at her breath.

Their irises were blood-red.

_Come._

She felt an insistent, tidal pull towards them.

"NO!" Vera shook her head, as she bolted towards the door. _Ignore the pull...ignore the pull..._

Mary gaped at the empty space across the table. She looked at the window and found nothing, only the grey multitude of Londoners at the Strand. Feeling unsettled, she sat back and rubbed her tummy, feeling her baby kick. That brought her a small, worried smile.

"What a strange girl..." she mused. "Why, she even forgot her umbrella!"

* * *

_Hurry, b-tch, hurry, goddamn you!_

The keys almost slipped from her trembling hands while fishing them out from her purse. Vera bit off an oath as she inserted the wrong one in the lock.

_Damn, I left my umbrella down at the Strand!_ she fumed, as she fumbled for the correct key. Wet strands of hair hung down to her eyes, irritating them. She flicked those strands away, muttering about the bloody London weather ruining her only decent set of clothes.

_Bloody London...bloody eyes..._ She shuddered at the recollection.

Shivering, she turned the key, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Behind the door was home, or Vera's close approximation of that term.

_Sanctuary..._ she sighed, stepping into the foyer. Peeling off her soggy coat, Vera called out, "_Tadaima_, Mrs. Hudson, I'm home! And wet!"

Mrs. Hudson bustled out from her kitchen, carrying a thick, dry towel. "Dear me, Vera-child! You're soaked to the skin...and Mr. Holmes expecting you, with a guest!"

"Guest?" Vera patted her face and forearms dry with the towel. "What guest?"

"I don't know, but he's expecting you...so, you'd better come with me and change! You simply cannot stand there with a puddle below you!"

Vera completely forgot her strange vision at the Strand café as Mrs. Hudson led her to the landlady's rooms.

* * *

She stood before the two men in Holmes' study, and gave a small bow. "I'm sorry for taking so much time, Holmes...really nasty weather..." 

She paused. Her eyes darted between them. Seated across Holmes--in a dressing gown, with a clay pipe in one of his hands--was a massive man with twinkling grey eyes and a prominent nose. His serious, doughy face dimpled into a small, ironic smile.

_The eyes, nose...and ears...!_

Both of them spoke at the same time.

"You're Holmes' brother, I presume?"

"'Tadaima' is a Japanese expression for 'I'm home', if I'm not mistaken." The man turned to Holmes. "My dear Sherlock, you are correct. She's the 'tempus fugit' for the case." He rose from the settee, and approached her with an outstretched hand. "Mycroft Holmes...you must be my brother's ward, Ms. Vera Gale."

She shook his large, fleshy hand with both of hers. "Well met, Mr...Mycroft. You don't object being called by your first name, I suppose...there is one too many Holmes in this room."

Holmes gave a dry, noiseless laugh. "Come now, Vera. Pawky humour doesn't suit you." With his pipe, he motioned for her to sit down. "How did you know that Mycroft and I were brothers?"

Taking a wicker chair, she sat down and faced Holmes squarely, with nary a twinkle in her green eyes. "You told me to look at the ears. In one of our conversations about heredity. If I remember correctly, you asked me about my birth parents and such."

"You have a sharp memory, Vera. Excellent!" He nodded towards Mycroft. "Mycroft works for the Government...and today, he gave me a knotty problem to solve."

"I can solve it myself, Sherlock, but you have the time and energy to do that," Mycroft replied, favoring Vera with a sheepish smile. "I am a busy man, Ms. Gale."

She looked at them seriously, her green eyes suddenly opaque. "It's the Japanese girl's case."

Mycroft nodded.

Vera sighed. "It's just what I feared..."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_Vera Gale has an "interesting" pedigree...aside from having a really lousy family background. And she has gone a long way from being a science grad student to a Victorian language tutor. Now, she's following the footsteps of Mamu the linguist, thanks to her Eurasian roots._

_If I can remember my Asian History right, 1888 falls under the Meiji Restoration Era, thus the presence of a Japanese diplomat and his family in London. The question remains: will the kidnaped Japanese girl be found?_

_

* * *

_

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirteen

As they watched the four-wheeler roll off, carrying Mycroft back to his rooms in Pall Mall, Vera huddled closer to Holmes, sharing the paltry cover of his umbrella under the sleety rain.

They remained waiting silently for another hansom.

The rain steadily drummed against the oilskin above them.

Vera stretched out her hand and caught a few drops. "The heavens mourn," she said sadly, cradling the cold sleet in her palm.

* * *

Holmes, Mycroft and Vera knelt on silken cushions set in front of a low lacquered table while waiting for Ambassador Kitaoka and Lady Umiyo to enter. 

She studied her hands and their ragged fingertips, biting her lip in nervousness. The seclusion of the embassy's small traditional sitting room--a three-tatami affair--heightened her sense of disquiet.

_Those red eyes  
Something is definitely wrong in here  
_

She let her hands settle on her lap, a sigh escaping from her lips. Glancing at Holmes, Vera felt relieved--he showed no signs of discomfort in sitting on his heels--and, at the same time, she felt secretly amused at his brother, who uneasily shifted his weight at Holmes' right.

The door beside her creaked open, revealing a maid in dark indigo kimono under a simple linen apron. The maid bowed low before them. "The Honorable Ambassador Kitaoka Hisoka and his wife, Lady Umiyo," she announced with a softly accented voice, stepping aside to let the couple enter.

The trio gave a quick, observant look at the diplomat and his wife, then bowed low, following Vera's lead.

"We are honoured to meet you, Ambassador Kitaoka, Lady Umiyo," the brothers said in unison, with Vera translating the greeting.

The diplomat, a short, thin man with an equally-thin goatee, gave them a small bow. Lady Umiyo followed suit, her perfect oval face a Buddhist's portrait of pain suffered in silence.

They knelt at the opposite side of the table, Lady Umiyo positioned slightly behind her husband. Her soft brown eyes met Vera's green ones momentarily, then looked away. Her hands were folded on her lap, her kimono sleeves tucked away.

The ambassador,looking at Mycroft with serious, black eyes, cleared his throat before speaking in English, "We thank you for...granting us our request for you to come here, Holmes-san, with your brother." He nodded towards Holmes, before focussing his black eyes at Vera. "Although, the use of a translator is unnecessary"

"Sir, my name is Vera Gale. It is Mycroft's wish that I should be present with them, Honorable Kitaoka," Vera responded in English, her voice well-modulated. "They expressed their ignorance about the Far Eastern nuances in conversation," she added in Japanese.

Lady Umiyo replied, "You speak beautifully." She turned to her husband. "Let her stay, _Danna_-sama. I need someone to translate your conversation with the gentlemen for me, as I am not well-versed in their tongue." She smiled shyly at Vera. "How did you learn to speak like us?"

"My mother was a successful _geiko_ in Kyoto, when my Irish father met her. I was born and raised there."

The Japanese couple's eyebrows raised at the word 'geiko.' "Where is your family now?"

"I am an orphan now. A child of fortune, so to speak." She gave a glance at the brothers. "It is well enough that we should start our conversation about your missing daughter, your Honour," she said in English. "Time is of essence."

* * *

They had reluctantly accepted the help from Scotland Yard, in the search for their missing child Mizuki. 

Mizuki, a child of five, was strolling with her amah or nanny along Hyde Park on the 25th when a stockily-built masked man knocked her amah down with a bludgeon before kidnaping her ward. The crime was done in broad daylight, but no one saw where the man went.

"Where is her 'amah' now?" Holmes asked, leaving the tea, served by the maid during the course of their bilingual dialogue, untouched.

The couple shifted uncomfortably. Ambassador Kitaoka replied, "She was...sent away."

"Sent away? But why?"

The diplomat did not reply. Lady Umiyo spoke up in Japanese, her brown eyes filled with tears, "She committed _seppuku_, Vera-chan. Please explain it to them."

At her statement, Kitaoka-san grabbed her hand in reproach, but Umiyo pulled herself away. "You should not have said that!" he hissed at his wife.

Nonplussed, Vera translated Lady Umiyo's answer for the brothers. Mycroft let go a sigh of disbelief, while Holmes' brow furrowed deeper. "This complicates matters. How can you let the only possible witness commit suicide, even just for honor?" he said in irritation. "A sensible person would not think of wasting possible information in that manner!"

"Holmes!" Vera exclaimed. "Don't say that...it's rude!" she reprimanded him, setting down her tea-bowl with a hard _click_.

Mycroft gave a short nod towards the diplomat, his broad face without a clear trace of embarrassment. "I apologize for his rudeness, Kitaoka-san."

Before he could reply, the door opened, revealing the short, wiry form of Inspector Lestrade. The expression on his shrewd, ratlike face was a mixture of pomposity and embarrassment.

He gave an abbreviated bow. "Ambassador Kitaoka? Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." He gave a small smirk at Holmes. "Why, Holmes, I half-expected you to be here."

Holmes retorted drily, "Why not whole, Lestrade?"

Lestrade did not respond to Holmes' jibe. "Ambassador, I have important news for you, about your daughter Mizuki Kitaoka."

The ambassador looked alert, his face still as a Noh mask. "Pray, tell."

The inspector coughed a few times. "Several constables spotted a man identified as John Sutton, an out-of-work labourer from East End, disposing a fabric bundle at Canary Wharf an hour ago. At the sound of the whistle, he pulled out a revolver and shot himself through the mouth."

The room was silent. The silence was heavy with mounting expectation and horror.

"The men fished out the bundle, which revealed..." Lestrade paused, his face darkening into gloom.

"What?" the diplomat demanded. "Please...not what I am thinking..." His pale face aged twenty years at Lestrade's next statement.

"I'm sorry, Ambassador. Little Mizuki is dead."

Ambassador Kitaoka screamed, flinging his arms on the table. The porcelain tea-set flew and smashed against the wall, drowning out Lady Umiyo's wails.

* * *

At the embassy's entrance, a neat little brougham stood bravely under the rain. Before Lestrade was able to climb inside, Vera pulled him down. Clenching her teeth, she gave him a resounding slap across his face. 

"That's for Kitaoka-san and his wife, you unfeeling bastard!"

Lestrade gaped at her, rubbing his cheek. "I beg your pardon, young lady!"

"You'd better beg Kitaoka's pardon, Inspector!" She raised her hand again, but Mycroft and Holmes restrained her.

"Stop it, woman! It won't change anything," Holmes said, pulling her hand down. Mycroft released her hand, and opened an umbrella to shield them from the rain.

He addressed Lestrade, "You came in at the most inappropriate time, Lestrade."

The inspector huffed. "Indeed, which merits me a slap from...her. Miss Gale, I suppose." He climbed into the brougham, closing the door behind him.

"One question, Lestrade. Does Little Mizuki have a tattoo of an inverted triangle on her forehead?"

Through the misted window, Holmes saw him nod.

The carriage then rolled off.

* * *

As soon as Mycroft left, she huddled closer to him under the umbrella, cradling the few raindrops she had caught in her palm. 

_The heavens mourn for a little child..._ she thought, her vision blurring.

A tear fell from her eyes. Into her cupped hand.

She felt his long, bony arm wrap around her shoulder, pulling her closer, albeit awkwardly, to him. Nestled so close, she could smell damp tweed mixed with the bittersweet fragrance of tobacco from his coat. His grip felt warm and reassuring.

For the first time, she felt secure.

Vera and Holmes waited for a hansom cab in silence.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

_A certain detail from Chapter Twelve spawned a vague memory from my time in high-school. A quote from my Physics teacher...or was it an extract from one of the reference books of my college professor? Anyway, that memory gave birth to a plot bunny._

_Thanks to BaskervilleBeauty, daisychain and Hermione Holmes for the reviews! They are my morale-boosters._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

_The flapping of a single butterfly's wing today produces a tiny change in the state of the atmosphere. Over a period of time, what the atmosphere actually does diverges from what it would have done. So, in a month's time, a tornado that would have devastated the Indonesian coast doesn't happen. Or maybe one that wasn't going to happen, does._

_- Ian Stewart, "Does God Play Dice? The Mathematics of Chaos", pg. 141_

Chapter Fourteen

Rowan stood before a vast tapestry of amazing complexity and proportion. Craning her head at the left or right, or even above, she could not find the borders, edges marking the limit of the work.

The woven, knotted fabric was a riot of colors and textures. Her outstretched hand felt the bumpiness of slubbed silk, the roughness of tweed and wool, the smoothness of linen and cotton threads. She marvelled at the varied hues of greens--hunter, kelly, olives--the graduated vibrance of reds, yellows, blues--blushing mauves, autumn golds, pale skies, to bloody rubies, sunny saffrons and inky azures.

Standing out from the colorful woven maze was a white thread, entwined by silver. Four threads of solid, plain colors dangled from their knots on the white strand, which was drawn tauter than before.

_Before, I remember seeing this before...it was looser, more relaxed._

_This one's now almost at its breaking point._

In response to her thought, she could actually hear the threads in the tapestry groaning. Taking a closer look, she found many which were frayed at random points on the cloth.

If it breaks, everything will unravel. The white holds everything.

_Not even the silver can help her..._

_

* * *

_

Not even the silver can help her...

She woke up with a start, that last thought echoing in her mind.

"Her?"

Her strained neck creaked audibly, sending a jolt of pain to her sleepy brain receptors. Wincing, she bent her head from shoulder to shoulder to release her stiffened muscles.

"Sorry for that, hon...did I talk in my sleep?" Rowan gave an apologetic grin at her seatmate, a bored-looking teenager in a Red Sox cap, an AC/DC tee-shirt and scruffy jeans, sporting an equally scruffy goatee. Her words fell on ears deafened by earphones blaring out Slipknot at maximum volume. The boy--her previous idea that her seatmate was a real bearded androgyne--simply grunted and shifted away from her, tipping his cap over his eyes.

Shrugging, she gazed out at the Greyhound's window and spotted something strange.

A sun-yellow butterfly streaked past her bus window, then disappeared, leaving a thin trail of gold dust.

Steel-grey clouds skimmed, then covered the summer sun. Jagged blades of lightning danced across the nimbostrata, followed by crackles of thunder.

The passengers whispered uneasily among themselves. "A storm...but the weatherman said..." Their soft buzzing was immediately punctuated by terrified screams and harsh tinkling of broken glass, as buckets of hailstones pummelled the vehicle.

The bus swerved left, then right, hailstones crunching under the tires. Rowan clung on the back of the seat before her as the bus careened towards treebelt along the highway. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the violent jolt of a bus crashing against a tree-trunk.

The last thing she heard before the inevitable happened was her punk-rock seatmate yelling "What the f-ck--?!"

* * *

As soon as Eric stepped out of the sliding doors of the JFK International Airport, his cellphone began to warble out ABBA's "The Name of the Game" in tinny, high-pitched notes. Dumping his luggage in the waiting taxi's trunk, he flipped it open.

"Darling, 'ssup? You home for the Fourth of July?" His tone was jubilant. "I've got something interesting for ya..."

The soft, muffled voice of Rowan came through the receiver. "Hon, I'm in an accident..."

"WHAT--!? Where in the world are you, Ro-?!" He sat shotgun inside the car, signalling to the driver to wait before starting the ignition. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Near Concord. The Greyhound I was riding from Maine crashed against a tree. Really scary...a hailstorm suddenly came up."

"Was it in the news?"

"The funny thing is...no. It happened all of a sudden." Rowan sounded hesistant. "Eric--I dunno, something's wrong. I can definitely feel it in my bones! Please come here quickly! Please!"

"Alright, ok...I'm on my way."

Closing his phone, he looked down at his only hand-carried bag from his England trip--a battered, splotchy black nylon knapsack with a discreet, faded name-tag "Vera Gale". Inside were yellowed books, a calculator, an iPod, a sleek Polaroid camera and a sheaf of photographs.

* * *

Rowan stood at outside the doorway of the community hospital ER, her red hair in a sorry state of disarray. She was one of the few passengers who were unhurt in the accident.

With shaking hands, she grabbed something from the inner pocket of her torn denim jacket.

Vera's Victorian journal.

She flipped it to the page where her sister drew a butterfly, its color a delicate sun-yellow, and scribbled "The butterfly is a sign."

_The white holds everything._

She holds everything.

If she snaps, everything will fall. 

_No one, even I, can help her._

* * *


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_I'm currently reviewing for a major exam scheduled next month, so updates will be sporadic at best. Wish me luck! Dear Constant Reader (I've just read Stephen King's Dark Tower series), this chapter is quite short, but I'll try to keep it interesting and important (my keyword)._

_My beta-reader happens to be a good artist...she made a TS fanart/wallpaper. Check it out at my story blog )!_

_

* * *

_

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Fifteen

_Speaking to the atmosphere,  
No one's here and I fall into myself;  
This truth drives me into madness._

_- Evanescence, "Whisper"_

Rowan woke up screaming, as she fought against the tangled bedclothes around her waist and thighs.

Strong, warm hands held her by her bare shoulders, rubbing her with soothing strokes. "It's okay, baby, it's okay..." Eric crooned, wrapping his arms around her trembling form. "You just had a nightmare. Just a nightmare..." He cradled her gently, her head tucked underneath his stubbly chin.

"I...I can't sleep tonight...such a bad dream," Rowan whimpered. "It's always that dream...that dream..."

"Want to tell that to me?" He switched on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room with clear, fluorescent light. Eric threw a large, terry-cloth robe over his shoulders, knotting the sash quickly. He picked up her silk dressing-gown and draped it around her. "Ro-babe, let's go downstairs and talk."

* * *

Nursing her mug of herbal tea, she looked up at Eric with bleary eyes. Her expression of nighttime terror was slowly fading away under the cool, soothing gaze from her fiancé's eyes. As she traced a finger on one of the scratches on top of the wooden kitchen table, she said, "I've been having nightmares since Vera disappeared."

Eric nodded, silently urging her to go on.

"Those dreams always begin in the same way. It's...sort of a recollection. I was only ten years old when she first got lost in an amusement park. That memory gets replayed often, but with variations. I remember that I found her curled up beside the merry-go-round, but in my dreams, she's not there. Instead, a hooded woman comes to me hand hands me a cat's cradle, of sorts..."

She paused, her throat parched with recounting the story. Taking a sip from her mug, she let the leafy, astringent taste of the tea swirl on her tongue.

"...but, it's not really a cat's cradle, but a complex tapestry of threads. I trace one, white entwined with another thread, silver, I think. Then, I notice that there are four faded, snapped threads attached to the white. Suddenly, I hear the snapping of cords, as if the whole tapestry's being torn away."

"I turn around, then I see two women...or girls, I can't figure. They look young, angelic even, but old, at the same time--albino twins, red eyes, fair hair. They look at me with opaque eyes, and one of them hold out a blood-red heart, pulsating with light. The other said to me with a clear, girlish voice: 'What we have sought, we shall take, as her heart belongs to us.' Horrified, I scream, falling into the darkness opened by the cloth...then I woke up."

She took another sip from her mug, which shuddered visibly in her grasp. Drops of tea spluttered on the rough surface of the table. "I thought...I feared...that the heart belonged to Vera, that she won't come back, that the girls had caught her, cutting out her heart."

_Not even the silver can help her..._

Rowan blurted out, "Not even the silver can help her..." She shook her head, shaking off the cobwebs in her mind. "What the f--k am I saying?" She smiled uneasily at Eric. "It's one of those recurring thoughts I have."

He pushed his chair away from the table, the legs squeaking against the polished floor tiles. Fumbling in his robe's right pocket, he brought out a pack of Luckies and a nickel-plated lighter. Eric tapped the pack's corner, bringing out a stick. "Want one?" Seeing her shake her head, he took the cigarette and lighted it.

After first pulling in the nicotine flavor, he spoke, "The first part of your dream, you were reliving the memory of the first time she got lost. But at the latter parts--" He stood up and slowly walked towards the one and only window in the kitchen. Lifting the shutters, he leaned out and exhaled the gray smoke. "I guess you know what premonitional dreams are, Ro-?" He craned his head back at her.

She sighed, as she herself got up, depositing the now-empty mug on the steel sink. "I know. I just try to convince myself that I'm simply anxious and worried about her. That my anxiety morphed itself into nightmare...that sort of stuff. I never told this to anyone."

"Good move, Ro-. You'd be swayed into rationalizing it. Now, how can you interpret the dream? You don't need a psychologist to do that, you and your occultic knowledge."

"Are you poking fun at Wicca, Eric?" She crinkled up her nose. "Well, at least I'm convinced that my lover-boi thinks that I'm still sane... The hooded woman is my Anima, that's clear. The woven cloth is the world, past, present and future, and the threads represent the souls or fates of individuals. The white thread is my sister..."

She paused, leaning against the edge of the sink, her green eyes reflecting dreamy, speculative light. Rowan continued, "I dunno how or why, but she's holding the rest of the threads up. Disruption in the cloth is shown by snapped threads...and the two women-girls are the key." She frowned. "But they don't look like Lachesis and Atropos...they're too young..."

"But they act like Atropos," Eric replied, tossing the cigarette butt outside. "Right?"

"Ye-es. I am sure that they cut the four threads..." She crossed her arms, tossing her rumpled red hair this way and that. "But there are a few things I can't figure out."

"What?" He looked at her with serious eyes. "You have interpreted the dream completely."

"Wait, Eric." She left the room quickly. As he sat down on another wooded kitchen chair, lighting his second cigarette, Rowan came back, waving the leather-covered journal before his eyes.

"Before the freak accident happened, I saw...yes, clearly saw, a yellow butterfly flutter beside the bus." She flipped the journal open, to show him the page with a colored sketch of a butterfly. "In the hospital, I opened a random section here and found the same butterfly Vera drew. She wrote: 'The butterfly is a sign.' That's Mystery Number One."

"And Mystery Number Two?"

She flipped another page. "She wrote down four names. Each name has a date and a symbol. She used alchemical symbols. Penelope Meier--October 21, Fire; Regina "Ginny" Ford -- November 1, Air; Peter Mayhew--November 13, Earth; Kitaoka Mizuki--November 26, Water. Below the list: 'I arrived November 1, at the same time Ginny Ford died. Each death has an interval of thirteen days. What could this mean?'"

Eric puffed on his second stick. "Not much mystery in there."

Rowan carefully closed the journal. "I had my doubts, but I'm thinking what you're thinking. I'm just wishing that it's not true..."

"The four threads."

She nodded sadly. "Their deaths are connected to her. Unfortunately, the journal ends after the list."

"Not to worry, Ro-! I have something for you!" He immediately left the room, then came back, carrying a worn black nylon knapsack. "I found Vera's bag back in England...maybe we'll find more clues in this baby."

She clapped her hands in delight. "Gods, where exactly did you find that?"

"Down at Sussex...a man named Jonathan Hudson gave this to me. He said that it was some sort of a family heirloom, but he couldn't remember the story behind it."

"But, Eric...there's Mystery Number Three..."

"Which is...?" He placed the bag on the table. The bag made a soft thud against the wood.

"Who is the silver thread?"

"Hm, two possibilities: you and--" He grinned at her. "You and Mr. Holmes, of course."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

_A breather from cramming for my oral exams: another chapter. To those who reviewed (JPB, BaskervilleBeauty, Hermione Holmes), my heartfelt thanks! BB, I would like to think that we're almost approaching the climax of the story...but we're not: it's the middle. And for those who really want fluff, there's a subtle one I put in the "edited" version of Ch. 13. Maybe, if you look harder, maybe there's another one in here. Two, in fact. And I might as well warn that there's a blatant OOC. My apologies...  
_

_

* * *

_

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Sixteen

Vera caught a glimpse of her reflection on the clear water, as she leaned forward from the stone parapet. Dark green eyes gazed at reflected green ones. A cool breeze ruffled her straight black hair, forming a dark halo around her pallid image.

She laughed-her voice clear and girlish with delight-flicking away a stray strand from her face. Looking back at her reflection, her laughter died down and was replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Her hands crumpled into small white fists, trembling with revulsion and horror.

Two child-women, with too-fair hair and blood-red irises, stood on her left and her right. They smiled at her serenely, as the loose curls of their hair-the no-color of snow, of bone-floated around them like underwater plants.

Vera tried to turn away, but the wind behind her took the form of four invisible pairs of hands, pushing her over the bridge. Unballing her hands, she gripped on the stone ledge, resisting the insistent force.

The river below took the color of blood. The bridge crumbled below her. The rumble of collapsing foundations drowned out her screams.

* * *

"Fräulein Vera, Fräulein Vera!" 

She gave a shuddering gasp as her eyelids flew open. One of her hands enveloped around stubby, childish fingers clinging on her forearm, carefully prying them off. Turning to her side, she saw her ward's sweet, heart-shaped face and worried, Prussian-blue eyes.

"Fräulein Vera, Miss Vera, you're awake!" Marlene exclaimed in English, her flute-like voice expressing her relief. "You were crying in your sleep, Miss Vera...you had a bad dream?"

Vera straightened her posture against the plush cushions of the armchair, yawning. "Oh, 'Lene, how can I thank you? Yes, it was a bad dream, sweetheart, but you chased it away." She picked up a crumpled piece of paper from her lap-a week-old telegram from Holmes-with the message:

V.- NORTHUMBERLAND PETER MAYHEW NOVEMBER 13 EARTH - H.

Crumpling it again, she tossed the balled-up paper at the rattan wastebasket. "Dein Arbeitsbuch, bitte," she ordered Marlene. The child promptly placed the workbook on Vera's lap, grinning with her perfect little teeth.

Vera felt the dark cloud of nightmare dissipate from her mind. She returned the little girl's smile with a small upward curve of her lips. "Das ist alles, 'Lene. We're done for the day." Glancing at the slice of silver-grey light from the partially-curtained window, she saw the delicate beginnings of London's first snowfall for the year.

* * *

It was the first week of December when winter came. 

She exhaled a frosty cloud of air as she walked along Baker Street with small, quick steps. A tiny snowflake drifted from the steel-grey skies and settled on the tip of her nose, making her sneeze.

After brushing off the intruder from her face, she pulled her brown, woollen coat tighter around herself, grumbling, "Why snow on early December, dammit!" Vera ignored the shocked stares from passers-by as she re-knotted her thick magenta scarf around her neck.

A scruffy-looking street rascal bumped into her and yelled, "Wot 'a jolley laidee got 'ta cuss' for?" The young, greasy scamp pulled his forelock and ran off.

Automatically, Vera checked her coat pockets and her portfolio. _Good, he's no pickpocket, that I can say..._

She continued to walk, growing pensive at each step.

_He's very quiet lately, since he came home from Northumberland... Wouldn't talk to me. Which is fine, 'cause he's never home during regular hours. Depression? Could be. Or he could be preoccupied with something bigger..._

_But...I have to talk to him, about what Marlene saw a few days ago..._

Vera stopped before the front door of the flat, her gloved hand hovering above the knob. She heard angry, muffled voices from the windows above her. Recognizing the voiced, she quickly unlocked the door and entered the building, her heart beating a fraction faster.

Standing at the foot of the stairwell, she witnessed Watson slamming the door behind him with unusual vim, his open face scrunched up with anger and disappointment. Catching sight of her, he tried to smooth his face, but failed. He smiled at her glumly.

"Good day, Vera. Back so soon?" He limped down the seventeen steps with heavy feet.

"What was that-" She held him by the shoulders and pointed upstairs. "-all about?"

"Ah, Vera...just a simple disagreement with Holmes. A trifle." Watson patted her arm gently. "He's-very busy and I disturbed him, that's all. Good day, my dear." He walked towards the opened front door, leaving her alone at the fast-cooling foyer.

Feeling something hard crystallize inside her, she stomped upstairs, hurriedly removing her scarf and coat. Flinging open the door, she saw that the sitting-cum-dining room was unoccupied. She clucked her tongue in impatience, seeing that the four-panelled door to the study was closed.

As she opened it, Vera saw him hunched over his chemical workbench. With a quiet voice, she called out, "Holmes? We have to talk."

He remained silent, as he continued to work on his glass apparata, ignoring her words.

Taking a deep breath, she felt the hard crystal sphere inside her vibrate dissonantly. She screamed. "HOLMES!"

Before the shrill note of her scream ended, the strangeness began.

The windows in the study automatically lifted their shutters, letting in gusts of freezing wind into the room. The fire flared brightly, with sparks flying beyond the grating. Various papers and correspondences from the desks whirled around like dust devils. All the test tubes and pasteur pipettes, including one Holmes held delicately with his fingers, shattered.

He immediately straightened up and looked at her, with lips pressed into a thin line. Vera's knees gave up on her, as she collapsed on the threshold, her almond eyes wide with terror.

As he walked from the workbench, towards her, she shrieked, "Stay away from me!" She hid her head in the soft, crumpled heap of her coat and scarf. "God, I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to..." She could still feel the vibration within her quiet down, like the dampened ringing of a distant church bell.

She heard the soft sound of shutters sliding closed.

Without looking up, she heard him say, "Watson was right-I have neglected you." Strong, firm hand grasped her shoulders as she felt herself being lifted back on her feet. "I have been remiss in my duties to you as your friend..."

Upset, Vera kept her eyes pointed on the floor. "I am so, so sorry about what happened...I can't explain, but it's my fault...and I'm scared..."

Holmes brushed away a tear from her cheek. His long finger felt gentle against her skin. "I owe you and Watson my deepest apologies. Come, Vera-" Encasing her hands inside his own, he slowly led her to the settee. "You are clearly overwrought by the incident."

As she settled back into the cushions, he left the study, then came back carrying a violin and bow. The instrument's glossy wood gleamed under the fading winter light filtered from outside. Tucking it under his chin, he drew the bow, letting out a pure, sweet note from the strings.

She made a motion to get up, but he signalled her to stay back. "No, Vera, you need to rest. We will talk later over supper at Simpson's." He drew forth a haunting, gentle song from the violin.

The melody wrapped around her consciousness, lulling her to sleep. Before closing her eyes, she carefully imprinted his image, with clear grey eyes filled with gentle light, in her memory.

_I feel...safe..._

A fleeting memory rose, unbidden. Of waiting under the sleety rain, with a raindrop and a tear in her hand. It evoked the scent of damp tweed and tobacco.

The feeling of security enveloped her, as she fell asleep.

* * *

Putting down his instrument, he watched her breathe in and out with a shallow rhythm of sleep. Kneeling before her, he raised his hand and touched her face, tracing the gentle dome of her forehead, the curve of her nose. His hand paused at her lips. 

He quickly drew away from her, a small, sudden frown forming a crease between his brows. He walked away from the study, his head bowed in thought.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_So sorry for the delay! Mea culpa: I should have posted 16 and 17 at the same time, as the previous chapter raised pertinent questions from puzzled readers. In other words: continuity issues. 16 and 17 are supposed to be twinned chapters. A really-good news: I'll be earning my M.S. degree very soon...not bad for a girl who wished to follow the footsteps of the first fictional chemist.  
_

* * *

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Seventeen

"Mrs. Hudson is spending the night with a gravely-ill relative of hers in Reading," Holmes informed her over his fricassee of chicken at Simpson's. "Considering what happened earlier, she was lucky to be spared from witnessing the singular incident."

Vera slightly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. _Thank God for that..._, she thought, picking on her fillet of sole in lemon-cream sauce with her fork. "But it's not a good enough reason for you to 'borrow' her opal earrings for me." She cocked her head on one side, iridiscent opals catching reflected light from the silver candelabra of the restaurant. "I still owe her half of my wages as Marlene's tutor for my wardrobe."

He gave a short, noiseless chuckle. "As for Fräulein Marlene, did she warn you about a certain red-eyed woman? Am I correct?"

She dropped her fork on her plate, her green eyes growing large. "Yes, this morning. In fact, I was supposed to tell you that..."

After taking a sip of white wine, he replied, "Contrary to what Watson told me, I've not been completely remiss in my duties to you. This week has been very fruitful, so far."

"What about John Sutton? Is there any connection between him and the other murders?" she asked. "The murder of Peter Mayhew in Northumberland, too?"

"The connection is the red-eyed woman, who was unfortunate enough to have those unusual eyes. Hours before Peter Mayhew died, Sutton and his lady companion dropped by the village inn to inquire about Mayhew. The innkeeper, a Mr. Joseph Smith, gave them directions to the victim's hut. And, according to him, the lady's eyes were unforgettable, even though she was heavily veiled."

"And you knew that she had visited the Meier household before Penelope died?" She took a delicate sip from her glass. "Excellent Riesling, by the way."

"It was Marlene who told me about her mother and the strange visitor. The child saw them talk for a short while, with her mother turning pale. A week after the visit, Mrs. Meier disappeared..."

"Then found dead, with severe burns. With a triangular mark on her forehead for Fire." She pushed her plate away. "I think I've had enough already."

Leaning back, she sighed softly. "And, this morning, the same woman visited the Meiers, inquiring about me. What does she want from me?"

"Nothing good, Vera. Until everything's settled, you must be on your guard at all times."

"Even if I watch my own shadow, Holmes, I still feel...unsafe. Even in my dreams...have I told you about them? My nightmares?"

"I beg your pardon. Dreams, you say?"

"Yes. The reason why I felt compelled to disturb you today was that the business of the red-eyed lady. I've been dreaming about her...no, them, two of them...ever since little Mizuki died."

He listened to her with hooded eyes, as he contemplated the wineglass in his hand. She told him about the bridge, of diving into the perfect blue water of the river, of being pulled under and drowning. She told him of dreaming about being held aloft, of being suspended above the bridge, arms and legs intricately knotted with multicolored threads.

She told them of seeing two child-women with red eyes and bone-white hair, of their reflections on the water.

As she reached the part where she had a vision about her/them in a Strand café, he interrupted her, "You were with Mrs. Watson then. Did she also see the women and the yellow butterfly?"

"If she did, Mary was too calm. She was completely oblivious to their presence outside."

"I see. Go on."

"Then, after the vision, I began to feel strangely unsettled. When Marlene told me about her visitor this morning...everything began to unravel. As if I were simply a puppet held by strings, with the woman-or women-controlling me." She cleared her throat. "About what happened this afternoon...I know it was my fault. I felt-no, I still feel-that all the strangeness had formed into a hard, crystal ball which I have little or no control."

Hearing the plaintive tone of her last statement, Holmes reached across the table for her hands. "And you did not inform me about that until now."

"Because you were preoccupied with something else. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

"But you have all the right to do that, Vera. If I appeared to be too busy to take notice of your problems, I apologize."

Vera opened her mouth to say something, but a commotion from a neighboring table stopped her. A blonde-haired, bejeweled lady flounced haughtily away, leaving her dinner companion-a red-faced, bald man-sopping wet. An overturned glass rolled off the table and smashed on the marble floor.

Squeezing her hands, he gave a short laugh. "Earlier, you demanded me to give you a very good reason for 'borrowing' Mrs. Hudson's earrings. The answer is quite obvious: I wanted you to blend in with the usual dining crowd here at Simpson's. A too-plainly dressed lady would attract too much attention...but, so it seems that my plan did not work."

She quickly withdrew her hands from his grasp. "That-" Her head nodded towards the embarrassed man, who was now assisted by a poker-faced waiter. "-is not my fault, Holmes. And never will be."

* * *

The next day-_a Saturday_, Vera mentally noted-she thought, _It's about time I clean out my bag..._ Flinging the curtains open, the unseasonally bright winter sunlight flooded her room. 

Under the bright light, Vera rooted through her nylon backpack, fishing out her calculator, iPod and make-up silk-pouch. Digging further, she fished out her small notebook and a black Bic ballpen. And...

_My Polaroid camera! I almost forgot about it..._

Excited about her discovery, she stood in front of her mirror. Clicking the shutter button, she waited for the camera to spit out the developed photograph. A few seconds passed-then a small square of paper emerged from the slit.

Shaking it dry, she looked at it for a moment, then gasped.

Aside from her own self, clad in her nightshirt and holding the camera to her face, was a sun-yellow butterfly flitting beside her reflection.

She looked back at the mirror. _Impossible!_ Then back at the photograph.

Tossing her dressing robe around her shoulders, Vera tucked the picture inside the robe's large patchwork pocket.

* * *

"Holmes, look at this!" She waved the photograph in front of him. "Put that book down and look-" Vera fell silent, seeing the book Holmes was reading. 

_A Compleat History of Alchemy and Magick_ by A. Margolin. Beside the embossed title was a gilded butterfly.

Holmes peered over the book. "What is it, Vera? Gaping doesn't suit you." Taking a cursory glance at the photograph, he remarked, "There was no butterfly in your room, judging by your actions."

"That's the first thing I wanted to say...but, there's more. Look at the book you're holding. The cover, Holmes."

He flipped the book and inspected the cover title and design. "Indeed, this is...interesting. A very singular coincidence." Scrutinizing the gilded insect and the Polaroid, he said, "The details on the wings are too exact to be ignored. But the idea of you photographing yourself early in the morning, only in your nightshirt..."

"Damn it, Holmes, that's an obtuse joke!" She snatched the photo away from his hand, cheeks growing warm.

"I meant to say that the effect was not risqué."

"Still, Holmes, I never expected to hear that from you." Vera stalked towards her desk, sticking the photograph somewhere between the Deutsch workbooks of Marlene. "It was only the butterfly I wanted to show you."

"To digress, Vera: are you not curious about this book I'm reading?"

"I am dying to know about that," she retorted, seating on the settee in front of the fire. The pixie-light from the flames danced on her bottle-green eyes.

"This book belongs to John Sutton."

"He's well-read for an ordinary labourer." She tucked the edges of her robe tightly around her, leaning towards the fire to catch the warmth. Her blush earlier had quickly dissipated at the mention of Sutton's name. "Quite an obscure book to read."

"True, especially if it's a present from the daughters of the author." He opened the book and showed her the front flap. Written on it, in delicately curving script:

_To John, with Love from Anja and Katja._

"How can two obviously well-bred ladies know someone from East End to give him a book like this?"

"Simple." He got up from his armchair, striding towards the bookcase. Picking a dusty tome, he flipped through the pages and read, "Sir Alexander Margolin...born 15th of March, 1838. Educated at Eton and Oxford...hmmm...monographs on Eastern and Western occultic practices, the author of _A Compleat History of Alchemy and Magick_...widower, with children named Anastasia and Katarina, born 31st of October, 1870."

She jerked her head up to face him. "Diminutive names. And twins."

_Do they have red eyes?_

"Exactly." He flipped to the next page. "Unfortunately, the entry ends there." Replacing the book back on the shelf, he said, "John Sutton may have worked closely under Sir Alexander before, thus the familiarity in the sisters' message on that book. Other than that inference, I cannot say more. We need more data."

"Where did you get this book?"

"Courtesy of Lestrade, of course. Which reminds me..." He brought out a yellow-gold pocketwatch from his waistcoat. "I have to meet him about a very pressing matter regarding a certain mathematics professor. Are you going out today, Vera?"

Vera shook her head. "I'll just wait for Mrs. Hudson. Maybe do some chores while waiting."

Holmes hovered near her, head bent down to look at her closely. His pale grey eyes momentarily betrayed his worried thoughts, which he quickly hid behind a neutral expression, as Vera slightly edged away from him.

She broke their eye contact, facing the fire instead. "I can take care of myself, Holmes."

"If anything strange happens, tell me." He lightly touched her shoulder, almost tentative.

Suddenly, she sensed the tension in his touch, in the air. Vera glanced at him sideways. "You should take care of yourself, too."

His hand left her shoulder. "I will. Good day."

* * *

_Spaces between words scare me..._

As she watched him hailing a hansom, Vera traced curlicues on the ice-cold glass pane. "Take care of yourself..." she murmured, tracing out a butterfly, enclosing the cab as it rolled away. "In more ways than one."

_In more ways than one..._


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_To those who had posted their reviews for the two previous chapters (BB, Rochelena, Ki, Masked Phantom, Hermione Holmes, J.K. Ellis): THANK YOU! I enjoyed writing down the restaurant scene...it was a well-deserved break from setting up dialogues in the flat._

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**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Eighteen

Holmes leaned back against the stiff-backed chair, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve eye strain. He squinted up at the beige ceiling, dispassionately observing the faint shadows of late-afternoon dancing across his vision.

Shaking his head, he looked back at his cluttered desk and grunted. With few swift movements, he gathered up the scattered documents, stuffing them into a pigeonhole marked 'M.' A small glimmer of a smile flickered on his face, softening his angular facial features by a fraction.

_For once, I'm the one spinning the web,_ he thought. _Patience is the key. Now, on to other matters..._ He settled back on his chair, his hand flipping open the remaining folder on the desk, revealing colored photographs.

He picked up the first set: A glossy family photo torn into two. On one half was Vera and her father, on the other was Rowan and Mamu. Taking a clean piece of cardboard and a pot of glue, he bent over the torn pieces and began to paste them together on the board. His hands were steady, his grey eyes clear.

After a few minutes, he opened a drawer beneath him, bringing out a pair of scissors. The extra unmarked pieces of cardboard fell away as he snipped the photo's sides clean.

_Done._

Setting aside the family photo, he focused on another: Vera, her long black hair barely covering her skimpy tube top, with an impish smile at the lens, beside a shirtless, unevenly suntanned man, his arm wrapped around her bare waist. Angry, black marks covered the man's head, defacing the photograph.

He turned it over, inspecting the writing on the back. (_Majorca. With Sparky._) Another black mark crossed out the next line: (_My love, my life._)

He flipped it back again, inspecting the black streaks on the Sparky's face.

* * *

Vera tiptoed behind the sleeping figure, peering behind his curved back. Amid the debris of his paperwork on his desk, her green eyes picked out two items important to her. Leaning over his form, she slid them off from under his long, graceful hands. 

Colored photographs.

She gazed at the first one: her family portrait. She had torn it to pieces a lifetime agohundred years' into the futurein fury and disappointment. Holmes had patiently glued them together on a clean piece of cardboard, matching each tear, each ragged edge with precision. As she traced her finger on the near-invisible lines of the repaired photo, a wistful smile began to tug at the corners of her lips.

_Mamu, Dad, Rowan._ She looked back at his still form. _Thank you,_ she mouthed, bending over him, her lips near his ear.

The small, wistful smile on her face slipped away as she focussed on the other photograph. It was her picture with her former lover, Andy Sparks. _Sparky Andy..._she thought, suppressing the urge to scream, to lash back at the two-dimensional form on paper.

(He tried to wipe the marks away...)she observed, taking note of the blurry blots of diluted ink on Sparks' face. She had inflicted those black strokes of ink on his face, erasing him from the picture. From her life.

The flames were lively, as she tossed the photograph into the fireplace. She watched at the curling, slowly-blackening edges of the burning paper. _There are things which can't be mended._

"I could not remove the ink without damaging the photograph itself," she heard him say behind her. The soft shuffling of paper punctuated his statement.

She turned around, watching him haphazardly collecting the sheets of typed foolscap and whatnot on his desk. "You were awake after all."

"You're not surprised?"

"I am, but I'm learning to expect the unexpected from you. Besides..." She tilted her head to one side, with a pensive smile. "You changed your breathing rhythm when I said 'thank you.' The odds that you were pretending to be asleep was two to one."

"You sound like you know me very well, Vera." His tone was piquant.

She shrugged. "Watson told me that you are a good actor. And my sister's teaches drama and theater arts." She looked back at the fireplace, searching for traces of the burning photograph. "Since you're awake, I might as well say thank you, Holmes."

"You're welcome." He stretched out to his full length, his chair creaking under him. "Although it is a pity you threw your picture with your...beau away." His grey eyes were watchful, observing her.

She met his expectant gaze squarely. Her tone was flat. "'Beau.' That's putting it lightly. You should have used 'paramour' or 'mistress.' It would be more appropriate." Walking towards the main door, she added, "In case you're curious, I left him. I was naive...what I thought was love was plain lust after all."

Vera opened the door, then left it ajar. She faced him again, her opaque green eyes misting over. "He...no, I condemned myself to be like my mother, just like what Mamu said. Committing the same mistakes. But, that part of my life is over now." She smiled. "I love my life here in London. However, there are some things which can never heal." She crossed the threshold, about to close the door between them.

"Don't be foolish, Vera. Look at yourself now; surely, I can attest that the Vera I found at Waterloo Bridge is different from the one standing before me," Holmes replied with warmth, which made her pause. "The wounds have healed already."

"Perhaps. But, who am I underneath these scars?"

* * *

"Forever, a-ANGEL, I'll be proud to be like you!" 

Marlene encircled her arms around the snowman's broad girth, a pink cheek pressed against the shaped snow. Wires snaked out from the earphones to the iPod held by small, mittened hands. "Forever, a-ANGEL, I'll be proud to be like you!"

"Steady, 'Lene. One...two...three...smile!"

A quick flash from Vera's Polaroid camera captured one of the rarest moments in history: a smiling, rosy-cheeked Victorian girl hugging a snowman, listeningno, singingto The Corrs' "Angel".

That thought crossed Vera's mind as she flicked the photograph dry. As with other thoughts about her ward, this one gave her an easy, sincere smile, on her face and within her heart. "Do you want to see how you and Jack Frost look like?" she asked in English.

Vera bent down to Marlene's height as she showed the photo to the child. As she saw Marlene's blue eyes growing wide with delight, she giggled to herself, then sighed. _It's been a long time since I felt this...light...!_ she thought, hugging the child tightly.

Marlene snuggled back. "Thank you, Miss Vera! It's a pretty picture...just like a very small painting!" Holding the photo up in the air, she asked, "Why is this picture coloured, not like the pictures of Mummy and Daddy at home?"

Vera's jaw dropped slightly. "Ah, hmmm...well, because the camera I'm using is not like the camera used for the pictures of your Mummy and Daddy."

"But, Miss Vera, I wanna know...how ARE pictures made?" Quizzical blue eyes looked up at her.

She straightened herself, her green eyes thoughtful. "Hmmm, 'Lene, how do I explain this?" One of her eyebrows twitched in amusement. "That's a hard question. Are you sure you want to know?"

The child bobbed her head. With a half-rueful, half-amused sigh, she packed the camera in a quilted-silk pouch. Carrying Marlene, she said, "Maybe not here in Hyde Park. It's too cold for me to think. Perhaps over a spot of tea down Regent Street?" She winked at her ward.

Marlene squealed with delight, giving her tutor two wet smacks on the cheek. "With lots-a milk and honey, Miss Vera!"

Setting the child back on her feet, Vera and Marlene strolled hand-in-hand along the salted pathways of the park, with the little girl singing a childishly off-key "Summer Sunshine".

* * *

"Herr Meier, I think it's too much for you to give me gifts such as these," Vera protested, as she closed the lids of the boxes of chocolates. "I'm just an ordinary worker under your employ...just a language tutor." 

Herr Meier tutted. "Nonsense, Fräulein Gale. You are an excellent teacher for my Lene, and this is one way of showing you my thanks."

"Danke schön, bitte." Vera curtseyed. "Und...fröhliche Weihnachten."

"Thank you for reminding me...Fräulein Gale, Marlene and I will go to Bavaria for Christmas..." Meier began, keeping a steady blue gaze at her. "You will be left alone here in London for the holidays."

"Oh...when will you be back, then?" Vera asked, feeling sad all of a sudden. She felt a pang of loss at the thought of her ward leaving for the Continent.

"I think that is not what I expected you to say. Vera..." He used her given name. His face flushed a bit as he managed to finish his sentence. "...Vera, will you come with us to Bavaria?" It sounded like a plea.

Vera was flustered as she heard those words. _Bavaria...? Is he...oh, no...?_ "I...I don't know, Herr Meier." She felt distant, her mind cushioned with cotton.

_Johann Meier is a good man...he's has eyes for me..._

_But to go with him...is to lose something in return..._

_What do I have to lose?_

_The one who can tell you the truth. The one who can find your way back..._

A voice cut in. "She is to remain here in London, Herr Meier, under my supervision."

It was Holmes. "Vera is currently involved with an important investigation."

Meier was shocked. "Herr Holmes! How did you...?"

"Your housekeeper answered the door. As for Miss Gale, it is of extreme importance that she does not leave England."

"I don't understand, Herr Holmes," he replied, running his hand through his thick hair. "Explain, bitte."

"I need her here, Herr Meier. As for explanations, I cannot provide you with the details." Holmes took Vera's arm, ignoring her questioning stare. "If you would excuse us, Miss Gale and I will take our leave."

* * *

When Holmes and Vera were outside, waiting for a cab, she glared at him. "What's the rush? That was rude of you," she grumbled. "What made you come here to fetch me?" 

Holmes was impassive. "He sent me a telegram early this morning, detailing his plan to bring you with him. I simply cannot let you go gallivanting outside of London when your life is in danger."

"You could have...explained my situation to him." She waved her hand at the incoming hansom. "I may lose my job, you know, because of your...abruptness."

"If I told you that you are connected to his wife's death, I am very sure that you won't be able to see Marlene after December, Vera," he said, opening the cab's door for her. "Aside from that, we have plans this Yuletide season."

"Which is?" She raised an eyebrow.

"A long-postponed trip home with brother Mycroft. I never had a proper Christmas since I moved here."

Stepping inside, she retorted, "You could have told Herr Meier about that, Holmes. At any rate..." Her lips twitched into a small rueful smile. "Thank you. I couldn't have thought of a better excuse to refuse him."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

_A/N: Thank you for the encouraging words, BB, J.A. Lowell (yes, I haven't read "Lady Oracle" because there's no available copy of that book in my country), Dreamweaver74, Winged Ocelot, Masked Phantom, Lady Razorsharp, Hermione Holmes and AerynFire! I apologize for the late update, but I hope this chapter's worth the wait._

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* * *

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**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Nineteen

"Class dismissed!"

Rowan raised two fingers and rubbed her temples while watching her summer students shuffle out of the cavernous auditorium. She felt the beginnings of a tension headache hover at the edge of her consciousness.

_Teaching Elizabethan drama during summer is mind-numbing! _her mind exclaimed, as she picked up a loose sheaf of photocopied scripts on the stage. A drop of sweat fell from her forehead, blotting the topmost page. _THEY don't take well with Marlowe's "Faust", they consider Shakespeare boring...why in the world did they take up Theater Arts?_

Her train of thought followed that particular line as she locked the main door of the auditorium and strode towards the faculty center, crossing the sere green-brown grass of the quadrangle. She cut her grumbling when she collided against someone at the entrance of the center.

"Easy, Rowan! Watch where you're going!" Angie Smith, a first-year Theater Arts graduate student, said. Both of them bent down to gather the scattered sheets. "I'm sorry...but you're in a godawful mood. And I don't think that it'll improve later."

"Excuse me? I don't understand..." Rowan asked, holding the messy pile of paper close to her bosom. Her nose began to itch. "And I can't scratch my nose...Angie, can you help me 'ere? My hands are full."

Angie sighed, then scratched the tip of Rowan's nose. "I just had my nails manicured."

"An itchy nose's kissed, cursed or meet with a fool. Thanks, Angie...that's enough." Rowan waved her off, as she stepped inside the building. "Wait, what do you mean that my mood's not going to improve at all?"

Angie shrugged. "You'll see. Ciao!" She waved her hand as she glided away.

_Trying to be mysterious, eh? We'll see..._ she thought, trying to turn her office's doorknob with her elbows. Gritting her teeth, her elbows slipped twice before the door opened. Rowan crossed the threshold and squinted at the silhouette, bent over a desk, traced by the bright July sun streaming from the window.

Her hackles rose. "Vivian Hsu?"

The silhouette raised her head. "Rowan, is that you?" Vivian raised a hand to her face, rubbing her eyes. "I was told to wait for you in here."

Rowan switched on the overhead floodlights in the office. Her tone was icy. "What brings you here, then? Behind my desk, of all places..." she asked. Before adding a well-placed insult, she checked herself. "Vivian...are you _crying_?"

Tucking away a blue-edged handkerchief in her small clutchbag, Vivian replied, "What do you think? Aren't my eyes red enough-?" Her voice thick, she rasped, "Goddam it, you should be the one mourning, not me-!"

"Why...?" Rowan's nose began to twitch, sensing the stuffiness of the office. The scent of jasmine air freshener combined with a familiar sickly sweet-sour stench. "You're drunk, in the middle of the day!"

"Thass' right, Ro-CHILD! Nothing like Absolut Citron, straight up..." She waved a half-empty bottle of vodka in midair, emphasizing her point. "Nothing like it! Better than doing your old man, that bastard... They're bastards, all of 'em!" The bottle slammed against the table, a shower of twinkling shattered glass falling on the wood parquet.

In a flash, Rowan closed the distance between them. As she leaned over the table, she gave Vivian a hard slap across her face. She knocked the broken bottle away from Vivian's hand. "Get a grip of yourself! What the HELL happened!" She grimaced at the dribbling alcohol messing up her work-desk. "You don't have to take it out on my table, Viv!"

Vivian's dark brown eyes fixed themselves on Rowan's glowering face. Her jaw moved up and down soundlessly, feeling a fresh lump of grief blocking her throat. After a minute, she babbled, "Your dad's a f-wit, after giving away every DAMNED thing to him, becoming a total b-tch to your family..." She gulped, then burst into tears. "I dropped by his place last night...I expected that we'd continue planning th' wedding, instead, he called everything off! Your old man _dumped_ me!"

Rowan was taken aback by the news. "I...don't know what to say..." Her inner-self hissed, _You reap what you sow, woman. Reap what you sow._

"He was crying over the divorce papers your mom sent over, saying 'Sorry, so sorry' over and over. I saw that he was holding the picture of Vera, as if he was talking to her. I got pissed off at first, tried to rile him, start a quarrel, but he wouldn't. Couldn't. So I left him, just went to a bar for Laphroaig and Jack Daniels." Vivian coughed a bit, then fumbled for her handkerchief.

She continued her story. "Today, I was summoned from the Science Institute's Board of Trustees. They said that they cut funding for my project, that they don't approve of my relationship, that the Institute's scandalized by my actions...they even barely hinted that I drove Vera to her death! Them f-ckers! Last night, I was unceremoniously dumped; today, the school kicked me out!" Vivian blew her nose. "Thass' why Absolut's my best friend...when Vera was 'ere, she's my best friend, an' now she's gone, because I was a complete b-tch..."

Pained by the revelations, Rowan looked away from her, focussing instead on a collage of pictures pasted on the left wall. Keeping her voice steady, she said, "Vera used to be your friend, Vivian. If you only knew what happened to her before she...died..."

Vivian's hand crept towards Rowan's. "I came here...to say I completely f-cked up everything. I'm sorry..."

"It's too late for 'sorry', Viv. Say sorry to Vera, but she's gone and she won't hear your apologies even if you scream them out a thousand times." She snatched her hand, shuddering at Vivian's touch. "Go away, Vivian, I don't need your emotional baggage in here."

The woman got up and staggered around the desk. As she shuffled towards the door, she said loudly, "Vera's not dead, Rowan...saw the pictures on the wall. Watch the butterflies." Vivian slammed the door between them.

Rowan gaped at the closed door. _The hell- I should've covered the collage with a cloth or something,_ she thought, berating herself. She clucked her tongue, shaking her head in disgust. _Poor woman...she's totally unaware that her life and Vera's were almost the same. Almost..._

Glancing up at the collage, she muttered, "Watch the butterflies..."

Twenty-five photographs, arranged chronologically, comprised Vera's visual diary of her life in Victorian London. There were pictures of Marlene, of Mrs. Hudson (kneading dough), of Dr. Watson and his wife Mary - Vera was very precise in labelling the Polaroids, including the dates - of the Eros statue somewhere in Picadilly (_Circus or Street?_ Rowan mused), of Holmes (in an armchair with a thick book, looking at the camera lens with a raised eyebrow and a sardonic half-smile), of Mycroft (_Holmes' brother_, Rowan told herself), of Vera. She had solo pictures, pictures with Marlene, with Mrs. Hudson, with the Watsons, with Holmes, with Mycroft. She even had pictures of her and her friends at work.

Each photograph contained a yellow butterfly.

"Watch the butterflies, she said..."

The square collage was pasted on a large sheet of manila paper, which was taped on the plaster wall.

It _clicked_.

"They form a shape... A familiar symbol..." She went to the nearest bookcase and scanned the titles. Books on occult, on Wicca and alchemy. Her eyes alighted on a particular volume. With trembling fingers, she slid the book from the line and opened it. Rifling through the pages, she stopped at a page and uttered a horrified gasp.

In her mind's eye, she saw the tangled tapestry, with Vera's white thread holding everything together.

_Oh, sh-t..._

Her throat dry, she whispered to no one, "The Philosopher's Stone. It's the Philosopher's Stone."


	20. Chapter Twenty

_I had misgivings about the ending of the previous chapter. I didn't expect it myself. I had in mind a battle royale between Rowan and Vivian over the photographs as evidence that Vera may have "faked" her own death. But things don't turn out the way one wants them to be...such is the magic of writing fiction. Thank you to my reviewers, I appreciate comments and critiques.

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**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty

It was one of those strange days in Lestrade's experience.

When he left the Yard for the day, he noticed that there were no public transportation available on the street. The street was indeed crowded with people braving the thick, muddied snowdrifts on the pavement, but no carriages rattled, no horses clip-clapping their hooves on the cobblestones.

And the people did not give a whit to the marked absence of wheels.

Turning up the collar of his ulster, he plodded through the throng, blending in with the grey crowd. His shrewd eyes darted here and there, aware of the possibility that petty thieves and other nefarious elements might dare assault Her Majesty's servant.

His mind was preoccupied. The thought on the strange lack of decent, warm hansoms never left him.

The following events were at best sketchy in his memory.

He remembered being shoved aside, falling from the curb to the empty thoroughfare. He tasted the metallic flavor of blood mixed with the saltiness of melted snow. As he tried to push himself up from the street, he shuddered and faltered back, curling himself into a protective ball.

_I can't...get...up...so...cold...sudden..._

A flute-like, female voice drifted to his ears. "Oh, I am deeply sorry, Mr. Lestrade... Injured and cold on the street!"

He struggled to look up at the source of the soothing dulcet tones of apology, straining his eyes to focus on the figure bent down to his level.

_Blurry...black...veil? Faceless...can't see..._

He coughed, wheezing in the frigid, choking London air. "Who...?" he spluttered. "Who...are...?"

Tinkling laughter. "Hush, hush, my dear. Be my messenger, Mr. Lestrade, for I have something for Vera Gale."

Something dry and flat was pressed into his hands. "Tell her that she is not to refuse it at all cost. We will expect her presence tomorrow morning. Ms. Gale can bring Mr. Sherlock Holmes with her."

Lestrade felt strong, slender hands pull him up. Feverish, he cannot stop from shaking. He found himself looking down at the petite, black-veiled figure before him.

"Why...me?"

The stranger reached out and caressed his pale face with cold fingers. He shuddered once more, as if she had stoked the fever herself.

"Where...is she?"

She told him.

When he nodded, she glided away from him and melted into the numb, unseeing crowd.

Pulling himself together, he staggered a few steps before an empty cab rolled right in front of him. As the cabbie helped him get inside the carriage, he muttered the address before slipping into oblivion.

The stranger reached out and caressed his pale face with cold fingers. He shuddered once more, as if she had stoked the fever herself.

"Where...is she?"

She told him.

When he nodded, she glided away from him and melted into the numb, unseeing crowd.

Pulling himself together, he staggered a few steps before an empty cab rolled right in front of him. As the cabbie helped him get inside the carriage, he muttered the address, then slipped into oblivion.

* * *

"The note was for you, Holmes." Vera blinked and rubbed her eyes, as her vision adjusted itself in the dimly-lit anteroom. "How Lestrade came about it, or know that I was staying with Mary and her little Jack, is mysterious." 

He gave an inperceptible nod, grey eyes darting to and fro at the darkly gleaming furniture--elaborately carved mahogany accented by brass rococco fittings--and replied, "What is more interesting, ergo mysterious, is the lighting."

"The butler didn't turn up the gas, yes. The foyer is dark, too. Without Mr. Morrison leading the way, I might have knocked myself against a table or two."

"Yes, indeed. Isn't it interesting, Vera?"

Both of them approached a double-leaved door--different from the one which they entered from the foyer. Vera knocked three times, with Holmes' hand hovering at one of the doorknobs.

A gentle, flute-like voice floated from behind the door. "Please, come in."

Holmes turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Golden light flooded from the doorway, momentarily blinding them. Squinting, both of them crossed the threshold. Before their eyes adjusted to the sudden glare, they felt gentle, unknown hands guiding them to plush-covered seats.

Vera blinked twice, then found herself staring at an ethereal, doll-like creature with pale blonde hair and dark eyes, pouring tea into two white, bone-china cups. Another equally delicate-looking girl bent down to arrange a spray of blood-red poppies on the coffee table between them and the guests.

Twins.

"Would you like some honey in your tea, Ms. Gale?" the girl spoke in dulcet tones. "Katja and I must apologize if the lighting is quite...severe at first. But it is very muted as compared to others."

Vera gave a wordless nod, glancing upon her companion, who was seated with her on the white velvet settee. She gazed around the room, marvelling at the all-white drapery, from the upholstery, the lampshades to the damask curtains.

Holmes leaned over and looked at their hostess with piercing grey eyes. "Miss Anastasia, are you and Miss Katarina...albinos?"

Katja jerked back from the floral arrangement, startled at his question. She glided across the room and pulled back the curtains behind her sister, letting the glaring winter sunlight fall upon her. "Yes, we are. Which is why we cannot take in sunlight at prolonged periods."

"Thus we live in the dark...and this white drawing room is the only place for us to have light," Anja replied.

_White hair. Red eyes..._

_Pale as the bloodless moon..._

Vera suppressed an involuntary shiver.

Anja noticed it and gave a small, catlike smile. "That's enough sunlight, Katja." She focused her attention on Holmes, handing a teacup and a saucer to him. "But you are not here for that, Mr. Holmes. John's book is with you."

He nodded. "It is an interesting volume, Miss Anastasia. Would you care to explain to us about it?"

She sipped her tea. "Call us Anja and Katja." A pause. "Is it necessary?"

Katja spoke, gripping the backrest of her sister's chair, "I gave a copy of Papa's book to John when he left for Cambridge, as a parting gift. I didn't think..."

"Katja...I believe the question is addressed to me," Anja cut in, patting her sister's hand.

Her twin withdrew from Anja's armchair, settling herself in an identical armchair beside her sister. "My apologies, dearest sister."

Anja faced Holmes again. "John grew up with me and Katja in Papa's estate in Warwickshire, the only son of our butler. He was an intelligent lad, as Papa sent him to school as his scholar."

"John wanted to follow Papa's footsteps in archeology. He also shared his passion for the history of occult--I gave him a copy of _A Compleat History of Alchemy and Magick_ before he left..." Katja continued, stirring her tea with a small spoon. She stared at the abstract swirls of milk and tea. "I warned him about..."

"About taking things too seriously." Anja set down her cup and saucer with a sharp clink. "And now, he's dead, with the blood of four innocents on his hands..." A slight catch of breath. "And...we grieve."

Everyone remained silent, until the grandfather clock - painted white, with silver face and hands - chimed five o'clock.

Vera broke the silence. "Do you know why am I here, Miss Anja? Can you tell me the reason why...?" Her green eyes fixed themselves on Anja's red-brown ones. "For what purpose did John Sutton call me for?"

Before Anja could answer, Katja replied, touching her twin's hand, "We cannot say. Our father may have a more appropriate answer to your question."

"But, yes, Ms. Gale, we know that you are not of these parts. There have been...accounts of persons of different places and different eras summoned by mystics and people of power, but these are...sketchy."

"As sketchy as how Inspector Lestrade came upon your invitation for us?" Holmes retorted drily.

"As sketchy as the description of the innkeeper from Northumberland, Mr. Holmes." Anja favored him with another closed, catlike smile. "We are aware of your desire to implicate us with the four murders, but we have our alibis."

"We have been our father's lecture assistants in Paris since fall, as the professors from the University can attest," Katja chimed in. "Your sources can confirm that."

Holmes eased off from the velvet settee. "Very well, Miss Katja, Miss Anja. We don't have any more questions for you, save those directed to your father..."

"Ah, of course. He extends his invitation to the February masqued ball to you and Ms. Gale. If you are interested..."

He nodded. "We shall expect the invitation, then. Thank you, Miss Margolin, for the tea." He gave his hand to Vera. "Ms. Gale and I have another appointment..."

"Indeed. Goodbye, then," Katja said.

Anja dropped her smile, replacing it with a cryptic expression. "Wait, Ms. Gale."

Vera turned around. _Miss Anja...?_ She shivered again, gritting her teeth. "Yes, Miss Anja?"

The pale woman plucked a red poppy from the floral arrangement. "Before you go, take this."

Vera picked it from her slender fingers, admiring the startling way its deep scarlet petals contrasted the pallid wash of colors of the twins' drawing room. She looked up at the albino woman. "Why?"

"It is a reminder for both of you." Anja sat down on the sofa and stared up at her. Her twin joined her sister, looking up at Vera with the same unreadable expression.

_We have seen..._

_And we like what we have seen..._

_We shall meet again, Truthseeker.

* * *

_

Vera cradled the fragile blossom in her gloved hands. "Holmes...?"

"Yes, Vera?" He opened his umbrella to shield them both from the falling snowflakes.

"It is them." Her face reflected the pain and wonder of that insight. "Alibi or none, it is them."

* * *

_A/N: I apologize if the update took so long! My real occupation/vocation "occupied" my time. If this chapter reads strangely, let me point out that it was written in two different mind-states. And, again, the story flow shifted._

_Thank you, BB, Masked Phantom, for bringing me out of "hiatus". :D_


	21. Chapter Twenty One

_A/N: A lot of events of a serious nature occurred recently, so I was not able to get me in the proper mindset to continue writing TS. To the constant readers, my apologies; I just realized right now that TS celebrates its first year in Too long to be left hanging, I suppose._

* * *

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty-One

Holmes watched the telegraph posts whip past the windows in an abstract air, eyebrows furrowed into one black line across his forehead.

Watson fidgeted in his seat in the train compartment, worried about what had happened a few hours ago. "Holmes, our trip to Northumberland's in vain." To his surprise, his companion chuckled, turning towards him with an ironic twinkle in his eyes.

"Not at all, my dear Watson. Although the death of the innkeeper was unexpected, our journey was fruitful."

"Then tell me what's in your mind. If there's something I missed a few moments ago, don't keep it to yourself," Watson replied impatiently. "We did not find anything at all about the Margolin sisters you mentioned before we left for that village."

"On the contrary, Watson, I have."

"Speak up then, man!" He could not contain his excitement. "What did you see?"

Holmes laughed noiselessly. "Mayhew's burned cottage and the innkeeper's death bed."

His friend gave him a strange, disbelieving look. "Well, what of them?"

"You know my methods, Watson. Apply them."

Watson fiddled with his moustache as he thought for a moment. "The cottage burned down on the day the innkeeper died, according to the townsfolk. He succumbed to acute brain fever, as what I have learned from the only doctor in the hamlet, at the same time lightning struck Mayhew's hut."

"What else? What else did you observe, especially in the grounds and the bedroom?"

Holmes' insistent prodding irritated Watson a bit. "Nothing unusual, Holmes. The room was in a state of disorder, with his relatives milling around the body. The grounds around the remains of the hut was blackened and charred."

He shook his head. "Alas, you looked but you didn't see, my dear friend." His hand fumbled for something in his coat pocket. "You actually missed this."

Nestled in his open palm was a large white feather, with pale grey streaking."This was found in the room and the grounds. I took one."

Watson picked it up and twirled it between his forefinger and thumb. "I'll say... What is this, Holmes?"

"Witchcraft."

"You can't possibly believe in those things, not you!" Watson said, his disbelief clearly stamped on his face.

"The sisters are well-acquainted with the ways of the occult. Those events were too highly coincidental, am I not correct?"

"But, their alibis?"

"Strong, but then it is not impossible for them to be in two places at once. In Sir Margolin's book, he devoted a chapter on animagi—those who can change their form into their animal familiars. I have no doubt that Anja and Katja can do that." Holmes plucked the feather from Watson. "The feather doesn't belong to any existing bird in the animal kingdom, unless someone in the village breeds albatross and gull cross-breeds."

"Then, why can't we arrest them?"

Holmes sighed and looked out again at the window. "They hold the key to Vera's presence in this place and era. We must find the answers to Vera's problem before the law is imposed on them."

Watson slumped back on his seat. "Then, what are we to do now, if your hypothesis is correct?"

He replied grimly, "We play their game."

* * *

Vera had just reached at the foot of the stairs, fresh from her bath--combing her damp, black hair with her hands--when the doorbell rang. 

Mrs. Hudson called out from the kitchen, "Vera-girl, will you please open the door? I'm up to my elbows with bread flour."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." Crossing the foyer, she stood in front of the door and lay her hand on the brass knob. A tingle of fear and revulsion ran from her fingertips to her arms and down to her spine. As she quickly withdrew from the knob, she took a step backward and bumped into something substantial.

She whirled around and gave a sharp gasp of horror.

A small Japanese girl with solemn, expressionless eyes stood behind Vera, together with two pallid women and a rough-looking farmer, who all shared the same blank expression.

With trembling hands, Vera reached out to the young girl. "Mi-Mizuki-chan?" Before her fingers could touch the little girl's long black tresses, the phantoms melted into the shadows of the staircase. A single yellow butterfly flickered in the darkness before winking out like a candle flame.

She heard Mrs. Hudson's voice from the back of the flat. "Vera dearest, are you alright over there? I'm coming over in a minute or two..."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, don't worry." She reached out to the doorknob again and twisted it. As she swung the door open, a flurry of late snow cascaded inside, revealing a small parcel and a pristine white baronial envelope perched on top of the porch steps.

Vera looked left, right and across the street. Passers-by were walking and hurrying past the flat, ignoring her.

Picking up the package and the envelope, she closed the door with a sigh of relief. "Someone left a parcel, Mrs. Hudson." She read the spidery handwriting on the envelope. "It's for me and Holmes..."

The envelope contained an exquisitely engraved card decorated with embossed feathers. It read:

"Greetings! You are cordially invited to the yearly masque to be held by the Margolin family..."

She felt her blood drain from her face and hands. She noted down the date and time: February 13, a Friday, at eight o' clock in the evening, in the Margolin manor in Lancashire. Their theme for the year is avian, with pre-assigned bird species for those invited. As Vera opened the package, she saw two delicate-looking feathered masks: a black raven and a brown hawk. For Vera and Holmes.

_This is the point of no return, Ve-. They are calling you,_ she thought. A wave of nausea engulfed her, leaving her slumped against the first door at the top of the stairs.

She closed her green oriental eyes. _Holmes, the game is set and they want to play...please, help me._

_I need you._


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

_A/N: I've been feeling a bit uptight and queasy for the past few days over a certain knotty problem presented to me by my elders. Writing the previous and present chapters serves as my de-stressing therapy, so forgive me if I make some lapses in grammar, structure and story flow.

* * *

_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty-two

Rowan rubbed her temples for the umpteenth time as she strolled past the homey shops and cafés which dot the tiny university town. University students and local denizens swirled around her, chattering about light, sundry things such as exams, the next rock concert at the nearby town, the place where to get the best mochaccino in New Hampshire.

_I need to get my eyes checked, she thought, a rueful smile creeping at the edges of her mouth. Or maybe a new desk lamp with a higher wattage..._ She side-stepped just in time to avoid a massively-built varsity hunk stampeding through the crowd, chasing a running, grief-stricken girl.

"At least my reflexes are up at par," Rowan said aloud, watching the dramatic confrontation between the student athlete and his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. "People crash into each other as they rush through life like that."

_Rush through life like that... _

She sighed, her large green eyes pensive as she gazed at the window displays. Everyone was guilty of rushing, including Vera and herself. She had lost her only sister, only to rediscover her through century-old correspondences and Polaroids which clouded over instead of clarifying the truth behind her disappearance.

_Vera, where are you? How in the world did you have the Stone?_

Rowan looked at the display window of the only antique shop in town. Victorian memorabilia were scattered artfully on draped mauve satin, the patina of time glowing with dusty light under the late-afternoon sun.

It was the winking light from one of the displayed items which caught her eye. She narrowed her eyes and found its source—a gilt-framed oil miniature of two white-haired sisters. Scrutinizing the painting, she noticed that they had red eyes.

The discovery jolted her, as she steadied herself by leaning against the glass.

_They...were in my dreams..._

Without any hesitation, Rowan entered the shop, tiny brass bells attached to the store's door annoucing her arrival.

The antique shop was dim and dusty. As she stepped forward, tiny motes of dust flew into the air and stayed suspended. "Hello? Is anyone in?" she called out.

No one replied, so she satisfied her curiousity by inspecting each item on sale. Picking up the tiny oil painting, she stared into the flat red eyes of the sisters.

"Where is Vera? What have you done to her?" Rowan whispered to them. Her hands traced the elaborate curlicues of the frame, stopping only at the red enamelled poppy at the corner.

From a corner of her eyes, she spied another flickering, wavering light. Leaving the frame on the satin drapes, she approached another display—Venetian masks in the shape of birds. Among the gaudily colored and feathered masks was the one in a form of an exquisitely designed black raven, with plumes of black feathers and sequins.

Taking it in both of her hands, she slipped it on her face.

Her body crashed on the grimy hardwood floor.

* * *

Rowan's shapeless form drifted into a dark abyss dotted with tiny bright mirrors shining like stars.

_Where the hell am I?_ Rowan voiced out noiselessly. Without a body, her thoughts floated like seaweed around the dark watery world.

She swam—or crawled like an amoeba—towards one of the mirrors and peered inside.

* * *

Vera made some final touches on her make-up—a dab of lip gloss on her lower lip, a little dusting of face powder on her nose—when she noticed a faint ripple and a flash of red on the mirror's surface. She paused, a sable-hair blush brush held in midair.

The flash of red vanished.

* * *

Rowan pulled herself away from the mirror, her heart beating like a taut drum. Except that she left her heart in the material world.

_Vera, Ve-, it's you!_ Gathering her essence into something more concrete, she looked again into the mirror.

* * *

The inn's chambermaids were competent ladies' maids—or too competent, in Vera's perspective—as they laced her securely inside her corset, helped her into her black satin bodice, and arranged the draping of the voluminous silk overskirts.

One of the girls sighed, "Miss Gale, you are so beautiful!" The other girls clapped their hands and sighed as well, as Vera twirled in front of a full-length mirror, silks and feathers rustling.

For once, she almost believed the maids, appraising the way her simple chignon, the off-shoulder ballgown with lace and feather accents and subdued make-up made her look elegant. Making a half-turn, she saw the flash of red and a ripple on the mirror.

A flash of red hair. And a faint outline of large green eyes.

"Rowan?" Vera asked, touching the mirror's silvered surface. The ghostly outlines faded as quickly as before.

A maid replied, "Miss Gale, we're Millie, May and Daisy."

Vera pulled herself together. "Sorry, I wasn't referring to any of you." She gave them a small curtsey. "Thank you for helping...please tell Mr. Holmes that I'm ready."

The maids bobbed their heads in unison and filed out of the room.

* * *

As soon as she saw her sister touch the thin silver membrane dividing their worlds, Rowan felt a sharp pull from below her feet, or what she thought were her feet.

The darkness was gone, and she was standing in front of the antique shop. The tiny oil painting and the raven mask were in her hands.

"How...? Why...?" She stared at the two items stupidly. "Was it a dream?"

_It's about real as you can get._

The light had deepened into dusk. "I should go home and tell Eric tonight."

* * *

Holmes was waiting for her at the inn's sitting room, dapper in his evening attire. Beside him was a desk, with their masks lined up for inspection. He smiled at her as Vera gave him a full court curtsey.

"Milord, I have arrived...were you waiting that long?" Her oriental eyes crinkled up as if smiling.

"It's expected that the female of the species takes forever to dress up. And you look too plain for the ball, such a shame for my one and only ward."

"_Touché_. A very ungallant thing to say." She gave a small nervous laugh. "It's as if I'm dressing for my funeral."

Ignoring her statement, he held out a white silk flower to her. "A small gift for you to wear at the masque." There was a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes. "As I have said, you look too plain for the ball."

"A carnation, Holmes?" Vera raised an eyebrow. "A plain flower for a plain girl, then." She plucked the gift from his fingers and slipped the silk flower on her black hair. The blossom stood out from her dark attire.

As she picked up the raven mask from the desk, she looked up and caught him staring at her with a far-away look in his eyes. Vera found it strangely uncomfortable. In a quiet voice, she remarked, "Answer me truthfully...am I plain but fascinating, in your eyes?"

His cool, reserved facade fell back into place. He retorted, "That idea never crossed my mind."

"Oh, I see." She placed the mask on her face, securing it firmly with a black silk ribbon. Within herself, she felt a slight twinge of disappointment, and hoped that her voice sounded neutral.

After a brief awkward moment, he spoke, "It never crossed my mind because you are certainly not plain at all." He donned his brown hawk mask.

Another pause. Then, Vera said, "Shall we go now?"

"We don't have much choice." He shrugged. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes."

He took her hand. "Don't worry. Just stay with me."


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

_A/N: A sporadic update! Currently trying to squeeze in a tiny slice of time, with papers to correct, students to guide, and senior faculty to consult... Apologies to everyone!

* * *

_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty-three

The idle chitchat from the masked ladies bored her to tears. Vera--or Lady Raven, as she was introduced by the butler to the crowd when she and Holmes arrived at the manor--forced an amiable smile to a plump matron decked out in peacock feathers.

"No, thank you, Madame Peacock, I don't want anymore champagne. Have you seen my...guardian?" she asked, referring to Holmes. It was part of his plan to introduce herself as the sole ward of Sir Hawk during the masquarade.

The matron craned her neck at the crowd across the ballroom. "The tall, morose man? He's having a very close conversation with...goodness!...one of Sir Margolin's daughters! The one dressed as a swan, at the foot of the grand staircase..."

Vera managed a short curtsy. "Thank you, Madame!" Before Madame Peacock could reply, she squeezed her way through the revellers, keeping her eyes on him.

As if by clockwork, Holmes extricated himself from the swan-lady--_Anja or Katja?_ Vera wondered--and proceeded to one of the farthest curtained alcoves. Vera followed him there and found him sitting on an plush sofa, nursing a quarter-full brandy ball with his lips drawn into a thin line.

She perched beside him, arranging the drapings of her heavy ball skirts. "How's everything, Holmes?" She noticed the thoughtful brightness of his grey eyes. "You're worried, aren't you?"

He gave a short snort of amusement. "Since when did you become a mind-reader, Vera? Yes, I'm worried for Watson and Wiggins. I hope that Sir Margolin did not stop by his study tonight."

"You asked Anja or Katja about him?"

"Katja was accommodating enough to tell me that both her sister and father are still preparing their toilette for this evening's activity."

"So they won't pass by the study before coming down?"

"Hopefully, but one doesn't rely solely on hope."

Vera sighed, brushing and rearranging the silken folds of her skirts. "I hope Watson's alright..."

"Wiggins is a sharp boy, I'm sure all is well, so far. Watson will find what you...we need." He drained the last of the liquor in one long swallow.

They were silent for a few minutes, their thoughts isolated by the susurrus of party conversation and chamber music. Then Vera spoke up. "I saw Rowan in the mirror before we left." She turned towards him, green eyes twinkling from the black raven mask. "She knows I'm here."

He nodded. "Does it bode well for you tonight?"

"I...don't know." Her feeling of incipient elation was replaced by something dark and forbidding as she said those words. "But..did you notice something? I realized it just now..." She flicked her green eyes at the rest of the guests.

Holmes set down the glass on the alcove's side-table. "Quite artificial, if that's what you mean."

She gripped her skirts in her nervousness. "Everyone's waiting--'they' are waiting... I feel that I'm the entrée for tonight..." A sonorous tolling of an iron bell--signalling the arrival of Sir Alexander Margolin--drowned out her panicked voice.

* * *

As the deep-throated clanging of the bell faded away into the muted noise of the party below them, Watson exhaled a sigh of relief. For the past thirty minutes, he had been holding his breath, tense with anticipation. He breathed in the closed, stuffy air of moldering paper and wood polish.

_Damn you and your plan, Holmes_, Watson thought, setting his jaw grimly as he emerged from the heavy brocade curtains of the study's window. Young Wiggins appeared under the frosty February moonlight after melting into the room's shadows when the bell began to toll.

Watson whispered, "Where'd you hide?" He winced suddenly--his old leg wound throbbing, tired after their exertion of scaling the manor's walls unseen to break into the baronet's study.

The lanky street urchin grinned and pointed at the dim forms of the bookcases. "Ov'r there, guv', by yon' books. I's fit betwe'n 'em neat." He dusted off his page-boy's costume. "But's fright plenty o'dirt."

Watson nodded. "Wiggins, I want you to stand by the door and listen if someone's coming. We'll hide in the curtains if anyone enters." As he watched the boy slip past him towards the other side of the shadowy room, he pulled out a dark lantern from the curtains and lit it.

The shadows retreated from the lamp, first revealing the solid shape of a large oak desk and its clutter, then the rest of the room.

"What is it exactly that we're supposed to find, Holmes?" Watson asked, looking at the closed door of Vera's room. He felt nervous for that night's adventures, too nervous for once.

_"A book labelled 'Lilith Grimoire'," Holmes replied, as he knocked out the ash from his pipe. "And four glass vials."_

_"Vials? Of what?"_

_"Blood."_

_Watson gave a shocked look at his friend. "Where did you get that idea? From Margolin's book?"_

_"That will be his downfall, Watson. He himself had noted in the book that there were alchemists who were brazen enough to use human blood for their experiments. The 'Lilith Grimoire' is the only extant book on dark alchemy." He frowned at the two feathered masks sitting side by side on the parlour's table. "It's in his possession."_

_"And am I to take pictures of that book using Vera's coloured camera?"_

_"Yes. We cannot burgle his study--it might raise his suspicions." Holmes glanced at Watson and chuckled. "Besides, you are too honest to steal anything."_

The dark lantern cast a dim yellow light, reflecting the dark, glaucous luster of four vials standing on a sheet of parchment paper on the desk. Inked on the parchment was a pentagram--each half-filled vial placed at each point of the star.

Watson bent down at the paper and vials, squinting at the tiny, cramped writing below each of the pentagram's point. "P. Meier...R. Ford...M. Kitaoka...P. Mayhew...!" Tiny hairs at his nape prickled in alarm.

Wiggins heard him pull back. "Probl'm, Doc'?"

"No one's outside, Wiggins?" The doctor saw the boy shrug, and relaxed slightly. He fumbled in his greatcoat and brought out the Polaroid camera.

Peering into its viewfinder, he tried to suppress a shudder of horror. "Those contain blood," he thought. "If I were Holmes, I'd draw a sample from each and test them for haemoglobin. But I'm not Holmes." He pressed the shutter button.

* * *

Everyone gathered at the foot of the grand marble staircase. Even the string quartet stopped playing at mid-note, as all eyes were on the evening's host, standing at the topmost step.

Sir Alexander Margolin had chosen to dress up as a great grey owl--with an elaborately plumed owl mask and matching grey and white feathered cape--and carried the part well. Flanked on both his sides were his equally beplumed and bejeweled daughters wearing identical swan masks.

He paused for a moment, surveying his gaggle of elegant guests below, his eyes finally alighting on a couple standing at the outskirts of the crowd--a raven lady leaning against a lanky brown hawk. Their too-dark attire were stark against the riot of multicolored hues of feathers, silks and velvets of the other people.

Sir Margolin gave a sidelong glance at one of his daughters. "Katja...?"

She nodded, giving an imperceptible nod to her twin. Both of them floated down the stairs, welcoming their guests in tandem. "Good evening and welcome to this year's masque! We are overjoyed that a great number of you are here tonight... Thank you all!"

He followed his daughters, addressing the crowd in his pleasing baritone voice. "It has been an eventful and fruitful year for me and my children, and we would like to celebrate that with you, my honoured guests..." His dark-brown eyes never left from their focus--he observed (and was pleased) that raven-lady shrank back a little.

"I am pleased to announce to everyone present tonight that my new book on existing occultic practices will be published by Spring. My researches last year, including the short expedition to old Alexandria, which I undertook with the help of my daughters, provided me with enough material. Last November, I began preparing the manuscript and I aim to finish everything by the end of this month!"

Applause. He reached the foot of the stairs, and the crowd parted before him, leading to his real objective.

Sir Margolin raised his hand. "On with our festivities, maestro!" As the music and conversation hummed back to life, he rapidly closed the distance between him and his black-gowned guest and gave a courtly bow.

"You are the Lady Raven my daughters have talked about, mademoiselle?" he said, proffering a hand, his left. A large ruby ring, set in intricate gold filigree, winked from his ring finger. "Welcome!"

He saw her hesitate, giving a quick glance at her tall hawk-masked companion. She looked back at him and replied, "Yes, they said that you can help me." She held out her hand. "I am Lady Raven, and this is my guardian, Sir Hawk."

He took her hand.

* * *

Watson continued to search around the study for the grimoire, peering at the old leather volumes stacked in the bookcases. "Blast it, he must have hidden it somewhere else..."

The former street urchin hissed, "Doc, hev' ye look'd at th' table?" He fumbled and fidgeted at his post by the door. "It's purty boring standin' 'ere, ta."

The doctor shot back an annoyed look at Wiggins. "Yes, but not..." His confused, wry face lighted up. "Of course, inside the drawers! I haven't looked..." He rushed back to the desk and tugged at one of the drawers.

He noted beforehand, while taking pictures of the singular paraphernalia on the desktop, that the drawers had no lock. "How could I miss that? It's the last place to hide something of value...a desk without a lock!"

The drawer slid open, revealing a small, tattered book with the title _'Lilith Grimoire'_ picked out in patchy gold leaf. Beside it was a red lacquered box, with a white silk cord wound around it.

Watson flipped the book open and read what was written on a random page. "_'And so It must come to Pass, that a Woman, born of the Foure Cardinale Pointes, shall bear the Weight of a Million Million Lives and be torn Piece Bye Piece to reveale what Hermes Trismegistos had Etched on the Emerald Table...'_"

He went back by a few pages. "_'Man is born under the Elements favoured Bye the Fates, as Decreed Bye the Gods. Those who possess a Pure Element in Theyre Bodies have the Most Efficacious Blood in Making the Stone...'_" He slammed the book shut. "Horrible!"

"Shhhhhhh...Doc!"

Shuddering, he returned the book to its proper place, and took the red box. When he undid the cord, the lid flew open.

Watson gave one glance inside and murmurred, "Sorry, Holmes, but if what you said before was true, we might need this." He slipped it inside the pocket of his greatcoat.

As he was about to take pictures of the book, Wiggins shot out before him. "Doc...!"

"What?"

"Don't ya feel it...?"

"Feel what...?" He blinked, and said, "Something's...not right." The hairs down his nape prickled in alarm.

"No one's comin' th' door, but..."

"We must leave. Now. They might be in trouble."

* * *

Vera flinched from his hand. "It hurts!"

She could see a dark stain seeping though her black satin gloves. Holmes drew her away from Sir Margolin, glaring at the host. "What have you done with her?" He gave a look around and noticed that the orchestra had stopped playing.

The conversations halted. Everyone was staring at them with blank eyes.

Flesh puppets.

Only Sir Margolin and the twins, who flounced their way back to their father's side, showed a real human expression.

Joy.

Vera clung at the lapels of his formal coat. "I...feel cold..." Her grasp weakened. "Numb..."

Sir Margolin opened his palm. Underneath the ring was a thin, hollow needle. "Just a mixture ofmagickal herbs with their blood. It won't affect you or me, Mr. Holmes, but only Ms. Gale."

She slumped down on the wooden parquet, holding her bloody hand to her head. The figures of the Margolins and Holmes blurred before her. Her throat constricted. The taste of bile rose from her stomach to her mouth. "A...aagh..."

_I'm dying..._

Her ears strained to hear the men's exchanges, but all she could hear was a static buzz of a badly-tuned radio. She watched Holmes edge before her, his movement jerky through her eyes, as if the air around them turned into thick syrup.

_No, not yet..._ At the edge of her vision, four sun-yellow butterflies flitted towards her. _He trapped our souls, for his magick..._

As she felt the familiar crystalline hardness in her heart, she shrieked. Hundreds of glassware, the chandeliers and the windows shattered at her scream. Even the twins clamped their ears shut with their white hands. The two men were the only ones apparently oblivious to the power.

Sir Margolin glanced down at her. "Don't try to use it too much or the Stone will break you." He flicked his hand, and she felt her throat constrict again, tasting bile and stomach acid.

Holmes snatched his hawk mask away. "What is it you were saying?"

"Fifteen minutes. I let you run away for fifteen minutes, then I shall claim what is rightfully mine."

He bent down and carried Vera in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hiding her face from the baronet and breathing in hyperventilating gasps. Smoothing away her hair with his long fingers, he glared back at Sir Margolin. "I trust that the puppets won't hinder our escape."

"There is no need for them to do so, as my Anja and Katja will stop you at the appointed time. Go...you have fifteen minutes."

* * *

"Faster, Watson! We have to clear the main gate in five minutes!" Holmes yelled, rapping the ceiling of the four-wheeler. The carriage jolted and rumbled louder, punctuated by whipcracks.

Vera shifted from her seat and groaned at each bump. Holmes had ripped the raven mask from her, exposing her damp, pale face to the night air before bundling her inside the carriage. But that, and the close, stagnant air inside, sickened her. The way the four-wheeler rolled and gyrated on its axles made it worse.

At the next jolt, she rolled to her side and retched at a small wooden bucket Holmes was holding out in front of her. Nothing came out, except for a dribble of saliva. As he stowed the bucket under his seat, she wiped her mouth with the back of her swollen, now-ungloved hand.

Without a word, he gently took her injured hand and inspected the angry red welt running across her palm. He let go an angry hiss. "I knew it was a trap, yet I still went with it!"

Vera shook her head. "It cannot be avoided."

"I'm very sorry for bringing you into this..."

"I trust you, Holmes. You will not...let me die tonight." She closed her eyes. "Not even if Fate wills it."


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

_I offer no apologies...no, I do. Maybe I'm scared of finishing this "monster" of a fic, of disappointing myself with all the sudden twists. But we must all face our demons sooner or later. Besides, I didn't realize that "it ain't no walk in the clouds" as the youngest senior-level university instructor._

_Dedicated to the loyal readers who prodded me to continue chronicling Vera's life._

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

_I have seen, I have been  
__To places far and deep in my mind only to find  
__Comfort in your strangeness_

_- Cynthia Alexander, "Comfort in Your Strangeness"_

The haar rolling past the manor window had a pearly-grey sheen during mornings. Its damp chill, the bringer of sickness and malaise to the fisherfolk, could not penetrate the wrought-iron openwork enclosing the window.

Vera breathed in the cold air, drawing her out of her stupor induced by the blood-warm chamber in which she was imprisoned. The haar helped clear her mind a little, but it amplified the feeling of emptiness that accompanied her for so long.

_Has it been...a long time already?_ she thought, staring at the indeterminate forms outside her window. _This is the hundredth time I've asked that._

_I have lost track of time..._ She exhaled hard enough for a puff of condensed air to float before her, marking the boundary of the sea fog and her room. _A week, or a month...or does it matter at all?_

Vera's mind turned inward, as was her habit since she was captured, mulling over the empty feeling inside her. She was well-aware that she was periodically drugged to keep her mind from fully embracing the newly-formed crystalline sphere within her, thus the blankness.

This time, however, she can feel its hard surface, if she focused hard enough.

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and slowly dripped on the windowsill, which promptly froze.

_The Magus is powerful enough to warm the whole building without shutting the windows,_ she mused. _At least I know that it's still winter._

She concentrated a bit more, letting her imaginary hands smooth over the sphere's cold surface, pushing against it. The crystal momentarily gave way to her.

As she felt the slowly-accelerating onrush of energy flow into the void, her memory of loss and despair surfaced from the blankness. Shuddering, she quickly withdrew her hands, blinking.

And, with real hands, wiped her cheeks suddenly wet with tears.

* * *

_Above her, the night sky was awash with stars._

_When the carriage passed through the gates, it was unlucky enough to encounter a pothole in the dark. An axle broke—hurling the vehicle and its occupants to a ditch. Vera woke up from her stupor, when the two men were pulling her away from the debris._

_Holmes had a bruise on his forehead. Watson had a gash across one cheek, a bruise on another, and he was limping as well._

_She must have mouthed the name Wiggins, since Holmes had shook his head and pointed at the direction of the village. He glanced at Watson, who said, "Five minutes."_

_When he scooped her up with a grunt, the pain on her hand reasserted itself, together with the vertigo. Focusing on the sky beyond Holmes's battered profile, she could not help but notice the cold and distant light of the stars shining down at her indifferently. Not unlike the crystalline sphere within her._

_She passed out.

* * *

_

Vera drew back the drapings above her to stare at the transmutation circle carved into the ceiling exactly above her bed. Symbols of Air and Fire marched around its circumference, which glowed a faint red.

Concentrating, she tried to reach out to the crystal, at the same time reaching towards the engraving. A net immediately sprung up and entangled her mental hands. The image of the sphere fuzzed out into the blankness.

She whined, slapping her palms against the silk-covered mattress. Crumpling her hands into a ball, crushing the fabric, she screamed and kicked in frustration, before curling up on the bed sobbing. Sweat dribbled from her nape down to the small of her back.

_Damn the room is hot..._she thought, pulling herself up and tearing the sheets away. _It's so different from what I remember...from what SHOULD be..._

Outside, the cold winds of late winter rolled by.

* * *

_The granite slab felt chilly against her back despite the layers of cloaks wrapped around her._

_Her green eyes flew open as Holmes whispered to her ear, "I keep my promises, Vera. I...we will not let you go." His warm breath tingled her earlobe. She turned her head at the direction of his voice, expecting to see his face up close, but she found herself facing a high wall of tweed._

_Turning her head to the other side, she faced another wall of woollen cloth, this one greater in breadth than in width._

_Both men had revolvers in their hands._

_Pulling herself up, the world around her spun yet again, forming a ball of bile and acid in her throat. Her hand throbbed with a dull regularity in tandem with the antiseptic stars above them._

_Then everything became a blur in her memory._

_She heard Sir Margolin's voice beyond her human walls. "It's a surprise that you chose to bring her at this particular clearing in the wood."_

_Vera looked around. The granite slab was at the center of a circle of worn-down basalt stones in the middle of the forest. She counted five._

_Without warning, the two men moved, firing their guns._

_A flurry of white hair and limbs..._

_Anya pinned down Watson on the snow, now muddy with the slush and turned-up dirt. Holmes parried and wove away from an ironwood staff Katja used, the polished surface of the wood gleaming in the moonlight._

_A miscalculated move left Katja bleeding on the ground. _

_Red against white._

_Sir Alex Margolin stood impassive in his astrakhan mantle and feathered mask. He uttered something, words gutteral in her ears._

_Katja's blood traced a circle and a star on the snow, each vertex marked by a basalt rock. The curves began to pulse with an intense crimson light._

_In unison, something within her pulsed and throbbed. The wound's gnawing pain reached its zenith._

_She remembered screaming. An endless, wordless shout from unknown depths, reverberating down to her bones._

_Holmes and Watson were hurled against the trees. The pallid twins...fuzzed, like glowing phosphor dots Vera saw up close from an old television set her family had when she was still a child, and Rowan held a small, butterfly-shaped magnet in front of the screen..._

_Vera was hallucinating of her past, so lost in the abyss of memories that she never noticed that she had stopped screaming and Sir Margolin held her by her throat._

"_Come back, sweet Vera, else you will be inretrievable even to me," he hissed at her ear, now chilled by his breath. "It is so easy to lose yourself in the Stone's power." He pushed her back to the slab, his body looming over her._

_From the corner of her eye, she spotted the inert forms of the two men, dark bloodied sihouettes against the trees. The twins were nowhere to be found._

_The alchemist stroked her cheek with his free hand, as he tightened his grip around her throat. "Do you know how easy it is for me to use you to your fullest potential in this particular circle?" He bent closer to her head, lips brushing against her earlobe. "I can use you to kill your guardians tonight."_

_Green eyes met Margolin's blue ones, defiant light burning in their depths. Vera moved her lips, only a mewling sound escaped from them._

"_But I won't because I offer you a deal, which you will make with me..."_

_As he released his grip, Vera coughed out the words, "Eh..e...qui...valent...ex...change?" Margolin nodded, the beginnings of a smile curling across his face._

_The granite slab felt colder than before. _

_She tried looking away from the man's cold gaze, and failed. Closing her eyes, she replied, "My life for theirs." Behind her closed eyes, she could see the trail of blood trickling from the corner of Holmes's mouth. "My life for theirs...please."_

"_Well and good, milady. A wise decision." She felt his hand creep down to her chest, fingers probing through the fabric, tracing a circle and other marks._

_As he uttered another unfamiliar word, the piercing cold of the slab slid through her from her back to her chest, impaling her and what was inside her._

_The piercing cold, then a white blank.

* * *

_

Sir Margolin, known to Vera and to everyone else in the manor as the Magus, summoned her to his study. As she stood before him, bound wrists held stiffly down in front of her, unbound dark hair cloaking her face, he clucked his tongue.

"Are you not enjoying your stay at World's End, my dear girl? The maids told me that you barely eat, save for thin gruel and onion soup."

Vera tossed her black mane away and glowered at him. "No."

He leaned back against his wing-back chair, chuckling. "Well then, the Stone ripens at the expense of your wasting body. A pity." Turning back at the large, cluttered oak desk, he patted at a pile of parchment. "And in case you are interested—based on my recent calculations, we will be able to extract it from you a week from now, just in time for the Spring Equinox."

She hid again in her dark curtain of hair. "Oh." Her mind raced, _March thirteen or fourteen...a month had passed...a month..._

Her mind blanked out for a moment. Shaking her head, he heard the last part of the Magus's one-sided conversation: "...I will grant you a wish, any wish..."

"I want to be free," she blurted out.

"...except that," he retorted, facing her. "Be it food, clothing or any material thing, except reneging your agreement with me, nor returning to your guardians."

Her bound hands gripped the thin fabric of her skirts. Biting her lip, she said, "Paper."

Margolin frowned at her. "No ink. You are certainly audacious enough of thinking about that."

"Paper and uncooked rice." Her voice was flat.

"If I may ask, why rice?"

"Birds. They visit my window every morning. I want to feed them...I can't give them my gruel.."

"Is that so...? Simple wishes from you...quite admirable!" He waved her off, returning his attention to the papers on his desk. "So be it, tonight you shall get your paper and rice."

She bowed low, hair conveniently hiding a small smile from him. _I just have to hope the stone will work in my favor_, she thought.

_

* * *

A/N: Hm, what will Vera do with her wishes? Whatever happened to Holmes and Watson? Does Rowan know what happened to her sister? Stay tuned!_


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

_If there's one way to convince me to continue writing, my near-sister ZK just did it—fanart. I posted her work at synthetic-dreaming (go check it out!)._

_Anyway, the disconnection of the previous chapter might carry over to this one. But, still, read and enjoy!_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty Five

Holmes rarely dreamed, unless he was under the influence of his seven-percent solution. His normal sleep was of a dreamless kind, a white blank in between his waking hours, where he was everything anf nothing.

Tonight, like the other nights after her abduction, he began to dream.

The difference lay in the manner the dream was spun.

The noise was the same. The clamor of the crowd rang in his ears. Despite his height, people—adults and children—jostled him about, their endless chatter like birds. A child smeared his chocolate ice cream on his leather jacket by accident, who wailed when his mother scolded him and pulled him away, apologizing hurriedly.

Holmes shrugged off the rugged jacket, feeling his sweat steam out into the summer heat. Almost everyone around him wore denim pantaloons cut off at the knees, the women in flimsy floral camisoles suspended by whip-thin straps...

He paused.

_Why didn't I notice it the first time?_

He was at a carnival. And, judging from the general attire of the populace, in Vera's time.

Shrieks of excitement and fear tore through the place, from people riding roller coasters which looped upside-down and other gravity-defying forms. He heard laughter from the nearby booths, the clatter and hum of the machines running the extreme rides, and music.

He had heard that song before, when he listened to Vera humming it to 'Lene.

It was always about Vera.

_It's a world of hopes,  
__And a world of fears.  
__There's so much that we share,  
__That it's time we're aware  
__It's a small world after all... _

The song came from the merry-go-round a few steps behind him. A minor note ran through the melody—a pitiful sobbing of a girl-child.

Weaving his way through the crowd, he approached the railings of the merry-go-round. The glaring lights from the carousel momentarily dazzled him. He looked away, down to the round, tearstained green eyes of a redheaded girl.

She was tugging his arm with her small hands, crying, "Please help me find my sister, Mr. Holmes! I can't find her thread from the loom!"

"Rowan." He touched her hand.

Everything around them _shifted_.

They were at 221B's sitting room, drinking tea. The redheaded woman facing him crossed her legs, then struggled to pull down the hem of her too-short skirt. Sighing, she picked up an embroidered pillow from the floor and laid it flat on her lap.

"You knew that she was in my era, Ms. Gale," he said, setting aside the cup and saucer on a side-table. "Maybe you can help me _understand what is happening_."

Rowan shook her head. "It's beyond me, Mr. Holmes. The Powers-That-Be just told me to watch over her thread, the guiding thread in the loom." With a grimace, she tossed aside the pillow and got up from the settee, walking to and fro across the room. "She said I can't touch it, to limit myself in observing, but..."

She spun around, facing him with angry, desperate eyes. "...I can't bear to see her die! Help me find her thread again, Mr. Holmes...!"

"Then help me _here_, Rowan!" he replied forcefully, as he took her by the shoulder. Shaking her, he demanded, "Do you know that I've been looking for her for a month, through tons of records of passenger manifestos, of police reports, of real estate listings under Margolin's name? But _I could not find anything_! Damn!" He released her from his grip, turning away from her.

He began to laugh, empty mirth in silence. "Rarely does Watson see me frustrated. Ever since she disappeared, I kept myself away from everybody, just to devote all my energies looking for _her_."He shook his head, leaningagainsthis overstuffed armchair. Sober, he asked, "Tell me, Rowan, is it a family trait of yours to break promises?"

The question visibly nettled Rowan. "You've gotta be kidding, Holmes! We never break promises, never! _She held on to that jerk Sparks because she promised to love him and never let it go_! Even if it almost killed her heart and soul to be betrayed!"

"Then...why did she renege on her promise to never let me go? She could have escaped and left us alone to face them..."

"Because she cared for you and Watson, that's what! She cared for you enough to break her promise! And I always thought you were smart enough to know that..." She hissed and ground her teeth in annoyance.

Behind them, a flock of ravens fluttered by the window. The sound of their wings broke their verbal tension.

Rowan touched Holmes's shoulder, the beginnings of a smile crossing her relieved face. "I can help you, Mr. Holmes. You know yourself that signs are everything in both our worlds."

Her image shimmered before him before dissipating into the blank air of dreams. Only her voice remained. "Remember the ravens."

Again, a white blank greeted him.

He slept on.

* * *

Vera tasted her salty, metallic blood in her mouth as she bit hard on her thumb. As fresh blood oozed from the self-inflicted cut, she spread it on the paper bird she had made, now perched on the windowsill.

_It's the only way..._she thought, as she traced her blood on a parchment wing. _Locked inside, all it needs is an opening, a focus to use just a little bit of its power..._ She closed her eyes, focusing on the pain on her hand.

She can see it clearly before her, a red crystal sphere pulsing light in time with her heartbeat. Using pain as the conduit, she channeled the crimson glow to the blood-smeared paper bird.

_The Stone has the power to change...to destroy and create_, the Magus' voice droned in her head, as she recalled the first day she arrived at World's End. _It is the very secret of Nature itself_.

_To create and destroy, what goes around, comes around, bending to man's will._ She cut her channeling immediately, as she molded the desired form of her wish. _Bending to __my will_.

Vera watched her paper bird fly away from her window. "Will it reach them on time? I only have three days more..."

* * *

A loud crash and a discordant tinkle of glass opened everybody's morning.

Watson saw it crash through the flat's glass-paned window, as he was walking along Baker Street from the Underground station. He had noticed that there were a lot of crows lately for the past few days.

As he ran to the building, Mrs. Hudson opened the front door and peered right above her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson! Might you have any idea...?" Watson began, panting as he climbed the porch steps.

Mrs. Hudson was mumbling, "The nerve of the birds knocking against windows like there's no tomorrow! It looks like one finally went through and met its end, I suppose! Imagine, such a ruckus so early in the morning...but at least it'll pull Mr. Holmes out from...oh, Dr. Watson!" She ushered him inside. "Can you go check Mr. Holmes and see that he's alright? The rooks have been pestering us since last night!"

Watson waved the landlady off as he climbed another flight of stairs to his old rooms. He did not knock, as he knew intuitively that the door was unlocked.

He found Holmes examining a dead raven on his laboratory bench. "My dear Lord, were you up already when that bird went through? You don't look surprised!" Watson exclaimed. _And you definitely look better ever since Vera was gone for a month...last night, you looked terrible_, his mind ran.

Holmes looked up from the feathered corpse to his friend, who was busy hanging his coat and hat on the nearby stand. "I was expecting this, my dear friend. It is, pun intended, a breakthrough in the case!"

His brilliant grey eyes shone bright against his face, which made Watson doubt. "Holmes, do I take it that you went back to..."

"Contrary to your opinion, no. How can you doubt me, my loyal friend? It's this, Watson, which 'made my day', as Vera would say..." He pointed at the bird. "This is not a real raven, Watson. Watch."

He brushed away the feathers, leaving a crumpled paper bird in its place. "Only she can think of doing this, only she is _capable_ of making this artificial bird." His jubilant tone fell as he unfolded the blood-streaked paper.

Watson said, "The paper's empty."

Holmes furrowed his brow, rubbing the paper between his fingers. "Parchment, not paper. And on one corner, she used blood to write 'I'. I...what could I...of course!" He snapped his fingers. "Watson, can you reach for me the bottle of iodine crystals I keep in my reagent cabinet? And an evaporating dish, please?" He began to set up a tripod over a Bunsen burner. "Pour some of the crystals on the dish and give it to me."

Watson did as he was bid. "What do you have in mind, Holmes? It's a miracle you're up so early in the morning..."

"A brain lost in thought never sleeps." As purple fumes rose from the evaporating dish, Holmes held the clean side of the parchment right above it.

Words started to form on the surface, brown against the cream of the parchment.

_World's End, Spring Equinox, please come. _

_I never let you go._

_Vera._

The 'I' reacted with the iodine vapor, and shaped itself into a brown butterfly. The paper then burst into flames.

The two men watched the ashes drift down to the fuming dish.

Holmes was pale. "Watson, we have no time to lose. Tomorrow's the Equinox."


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

_I just checked the date when I first wrote this fic...and I'm shocked. Two years ago! This means a lot of things—primarily, the fact that I should finish this up! whacks self_

_Thank you, loyal readers, for your patience! But, I implore you to stretch it a bit more, because everything is precipitating as planned.

* * *

_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty Six

_Is there a heaven a hell?  
__And will I come back?  
__Who can tell?_

_- Jem, "24"_

"Eight hours to go...approximately," Vera said to nobody in particular.

She stretched herself face-up on the bed, dressed in her black ballgown. She had shed the flimsy, Empire-waisted frocks the twins had made her wear. She held the white silk carnation above her, its petals catching the soft yellow light from the overhead lamps.

With a sigh, she brought the silk flower down, cradling it on her bosom. She turned her head to the window, watching the night fog crawl past the manor—grey mist against black sky.

Four sun-yellow butterflies flitted through the iron grills, entering her room without a sound. They skimmed the air in circles before alighting on Vera—one on one of her feet, the other on her lap, another one on the carnation, the last one on her cheek, like a kiss.

"Please, keep me company for tonight. Talk to me," she breathed out, as the butterfly on her cheek fluttered away and dropped silently on the bed. Its tiny feet barely dimpled the sheets. The other three creatures took flight, responding to some unseen signal. They dive-bombed in graceful arcs on Vera's face, bestowing airy kisses on her, before melting into the air.

A pale, redheaded woman sat beside Vera, her weightless form scarcely displacing the mattress springs. Her gentle, smiling amber eyes glowed with the lamplight.

"Thank you for taking care of Lene, Ms. Gale," the woman said, as she reached over and touched Vera's hand. "You would have been a wonderful stepmother to her."

Vera sat up, the silk carnation tumbling down to her lap. "Frau...Meier..."

"Call me Penelope, Ms. Gale...Vera." Frau Meier inclined her head, a small smile quirking from her lips. "You...called for us."

"Frau...Penelope..." Vera picked up the flower by its stem, twirling it around. Her green eyes reflected a sad, somber light, tracing the irregular edges of the petals. "I want to ask you something."

"Hmmm?"

Crushing the carnation with her hand, Vera looked up at Frau Meier. "How does it feel to die?" She raised her hand, silencing the redheaded lady as the crushed flower bounced from her lap to the hardwood floor. She forced out a laugh. "It's just...amusing that a few months ago...or a century from now...oh, I don't know! I wished to die...and now I will."

Vera sighed, folding her hands on her now-empty lap, fingering the old scars on her wrist. "I always thought myself brave enough to face death than to face life...but, now..." She faced at the lady. "I want to live, Penelope! I want my life back!"

Frau Meier looked somberly at the distraught woman, then opened her arms. "Come, my dear girl..." As Vera embraced her, burying her face on her shoulder, she whispered, "There's nothing to fear, Vera, dear. Death itself is nothing but a...change in view." She clasped Vera's face in her hands, smiling into the tearstained jade eyes. "The way to death is...painful, yes, but the transition is nothing to fear."

Vera broke away from the gentle amber gaze. "I'm not afraid of pain, Penelope...but..."

"You will feel lighter, as if all threads anchoring you to this world are cut. But...for my case, as with the others...lighter does not mean freer than before. You know that we are bound to the Magus' bidding."

"I don't want the threads to be cut!" Vera cried out, pulling away from the ghost. "Cutting them will hurt me more than the pain of dying itself! Those threads..." Her voice trailed off.

"...are your relationships with the living. Cutting them will not hurt..." There was a small hitch in Frau Meier's voice. She looked away from Vera.

"You're lying, Penelope! You miss Lene, don't you? And Johann?" Vera demanded. As the ghost-woman remained silent, she continued, bitter words flowing out, "Why didn't I die before, on the bridge, in my year and place? Why send me here? Why make me forget and heal...?"

Frau Meier began to fade away. "It's not pain, Vera. It's the feeling of sadness...of loss... I'm sorry if I wasn't able to help... I'm sorry..."

When the phantom disappeared, Vera picked up the crushed silk flower and straightened the petals one by one. "Sadness is not the most painful feeling...it's hope." Glancing at the window, into the night sky. "Why did I have to meet you, Holmes...and hope?"

A single tear from Vera became the carnation's dewdrop, as she cried herself to sleep.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

_So, this is it, my friends – a chapter! Will they, won't they? We'll see... __Again, thank you for the comments and the pep talk, Prof L and Z-san!_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty Seven

_Too late, you tried--  
Too late, you died._

_- Sugar Hiccup, "Mikaela"_

1 August 2004, New Hampshire

Eric alighted from the cab, tucking his leather folder under an arm as he fumbled for the apartment keys. As he pulled out his handkerchief from his slacks' pocket, the keychain clattered down on the pavement.

He bent down to pick it up—at the same time, the hair on his nape prickled in alarm. Seizing the keychain, Eric straightened up and ran to the front door.

It was unlocked.

_Rowan!_

Dumping his things on the foyer, he stormed into the living room—it was empty. He rushed to the kitchen, and found Rowan slumped on the floor. A broken Wedgwood plate—its pieces scattered around her.

He lifted her arm, feeling for her pulse. Present, although a thin weak throb. He carried her to the upstairs bedroom, cradling her as he checked her breathing—her chest rising and falling in a normal but shallow rhythm. Laying her down on the bed, Eric tore through the cabinets and found a penlight—her pupils were dilated.

Rowan was in a deep trance.

"What...how...did this happen?" he asked aloud. "Ro—what did you do?"

Eric felt a soft breeze tickle his nape. Glancing at the window, he found its shutters closed, the lace curtains unmoving. Apprehension prickled the fine hairs down from his nape to his spine.

He felt another ethereal touch, this time caressing his cheek. Unseen lips brushed against his earlobe, as Rowan's gentle, distant voice whispered to him. "Don't worry, Eric...The tapestry's calling me."

Spring Equinox, 1889

The sea breeze, heavy with the promise of salt and Spring, gusted against Vera, fluttering the gossamer fabric of her thin, white robe. She remained impassive at the wind's message, immobile on the black granite slab where they had lain her.

White curlicues of cirrus clouds traced the pale blue of the early morning sky. It was a promising day. She stared at the clear sky above her, her consciousness distant from the chantings of the mystic faithful around her.

A silvered face loomed right above her—one of the twins, Katja. The albino woman dribbled mulled wine, fragrant with infused poppy and bitter valerian, into Vera's parted lips. Vera, blank-eyed, swallowed unblinking.

The chantings became more muffled and distant, like the dull throbbing of her heart. Her heart was the only one she could feel for sure.

When Anja and Katja sliced her wrist, she did not feel the knife gliding over her skin. Nor did she feel them milking her arms of her blood, into a silver basin beside her.

The hooded face of the Magus floated before her. Without emotion—neither fear nor hate—she saw that his blue eyes were like the distant stars last winter's night. Numbed by the drugged wine, she did not flinch as he ripped the bodice of her robes, exposing her to the elements. With a bodkin, he traced an elaborate alchemical circle on her chest, the thin point nicking her skin as her own blood welled to ink the drawing.

He laid his long bony, hands on the symbol and uttered a word.

With an inarticulate cry, Vera arched her body, as if lifted by the hands, her head rolling to the side. Amid the gray-hooded circle of Magus's followers, a white-robed woman stood out, her arms outstretched.

_Is this what you really want, Vera?_

_Yes._

_To give them the Stone in exchange for your friends' lives?_

_Yes._

_In exchange for your own life?_

_Yes...no...it doesn't matter._

_Then, what is your true wish? Is it to die?_

_My true wish...is to find the truth. The truth about myself, my existence, my journey here._

_Wishes are two-bladed. You have to give something in return._

_I can't...I've given everything to the Magus._

_Not yet. You still have the Stone, your life. For the truth you seek, you must give them to me._

_But how...?_

_Die before the Magus finally kills you. Will yourself to die, to let go...it is your only power left._

_...Yes, I will. Thank you._ With phantom hands, she reached out to the woman.

Vera buckled, letting out a long sigh as her body slid back to the slab, her green oriental eyes open yet unseeing. She did not hear the Magus scream an oath, nor felt him kick her body.

Her consciousness melted into the white void just as soon as Holmes, Watson and the police from the Yard broke the mystic circle. She was spared from the shock of witnessing Holmes shoot down the Magus at the head.

Everything did not matter anymore to her. She had let go.


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

_A/N: Don't despair! The last chapter wasn't the last...and neither is this one the last. (I don't make sense, I know). Please be patient, the tale has yet to wind down from its peak. Again, I invite you to take a look at the complex tapestry of TS._

* * *

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty Eight

Rowan held a broken white thread in her shaking hands. The delicate white skein dangled down to a pile of winding sheets in front of her. She closed her hands around the thread.

She knew who was buried beneath the sheets.

They were on a floating barque, in a middle of a wide, foggy river. She was kneeling before the pile, while a hooded woman stood at the other side. The flat boat rolled and yawed with the river current, keeping precarious balance.

The hooded woman faced Rowan. _We cannot stay here for long._

Rowan pressed the broken thread to her bosom. _Where are we?_

_At the crossroads. She either goes over there..._ The woman waved a thin, long hand downstream, where the white mist swirled in pearlescent light. _Or back there..._ She points upstream--there the mist billowed out from the dark horizon, where the river's edge met the vague sky.

Rowan stared at the pile before her. _If she's gone, why hasn't everything collapsed?_

Beneath the hood, Rowan caught a glimpse of a smile in the shadows. _Because she chose to break her thread herself, using the Stone in exchange for that choice.  
_

_Wise woman, I have a question myself._

The woman nodded at her. _Ask._

_Why Vera? Why her, of all the lives in the tapestry? It could have been me, or anyone else. Why her?_

She knelt before the pile, facing Rowan. Rowan saw the well-shaped chin and rosebud lips of the woman curling into a small smile.

_Because the essense of the Stone is found throughout the tapestry. I myself spun out the first threads with the essence in them in the beginning of time._

She reached over the pile and hooked a finger on a loop of white thread. _The One gave me the power to set the primary pattern, but to you mortals, He gave a higher gift--free will. The first threads gave birth to other threads with the same essence. Some had more of that than the others. And they wove themselves into patterns they wanted._

The woman rubbed a finger on the thread. _That essence is "reality". Reality and free will. But for the tapestry to hold, threads with stronger essence spun into them served as anchorpoints._

_Your sister...she was simply a product of the tapestry. Her whiteness and fragility, pure essence, was the result of the intermarriage of all kinds of threads. Because of this, she is placed at the border of the pattern, holding everything together._

_But why? She is weak...fragile to the point of breaking!_

_But she is mortal as well, with free will. The weakness is offset by strength of will. What the Magus did...was to go out of the tapestry by weaving artificial threads from his self--homonunculi--to directly tamper the weave.  
_

_And the strength or weakness of will is influenced by the people and situations around her._

The woman fell silent, letting the thread float from her finger.

Rowan shook her head. _Can you not weave her back again? Add more fibers to her thread?_ Her green eyes glimmered with tears. _You wove the first threads in, surely you can do it again?_

The woman stood up, her colorless robes rustling like dead leaves. _No, my work is done in the beginning of time. The power to weave back lies in mortal hands._ She nodded at Rowan. _It lies in your hands. The only power I have is the choice of who will weave it again. By choosing to die, Vera gave me that power to give it to someone worthy enough for the responsibility.  
_

Rowan felt her cheeks redden. _Oh, no, not me! Why me?_

_You ask too many unneccessary questions. Time is short. Do you know who is willing to give a part of his thread to her?_

She smiled at the hooded figure. _I know._

* * *

Holmes took deep, gulping breaths as he glared at the Magus' bloody supine body. He willed his hand, still gripping the revolver, to stop shaking. Glancing back at Watson, busy wrapping gauze bandages around Vera's exposed chest, he called out, "How is she?" 

Watson palpitated for a pulse on Vera's neck. With somber eyes, he looked at Holmes and shook his head.

Holmes bit off an oath, turning away from the Magus. He signalled at Lestrade, who tactfully kept away from the scene, occupying himself with directing the local police. He was immersed in a soft discussion with two constables.

"Inspector, come this way, my man." He kept his voice clipped, willing himself to not glance back at either Vera or the bloodied man behind him.

Lestrade sighed, nodding at the two men. He strode towards Holmes, ferret face grim. "No, Holmes, if you're thinking about what happened a while go, it was justified." He glanced at Watson. "Is she...alright?"

"No, Lestrade. It's not that. The twins, where are they?"

"The twins...?" Before Lestrade could respond, Holmes felt two pairs of hands touch his shoulders.

Anja and Katja, pallid and translucent in early spring daylight, stood behind him. Anja, solemn-faced, spoke, "We come and go as we please. The Magus gave us that power."

Katja said, "But he is gone, and so will we."

"Before we fade, Mr. Holmes..." Anja pulled herself close to Holmes' ear. "All is not lost. Listen and you will find her."

Her twin shook her head. "You seeker of truths, she lies beyond here, but within reach. Unlike us..."

They bowed their heads. "We were created with no regrets. But as we fade..." Their skin grew more transparent, shimmering before the men like a mirage. "Why are we sad?"

"We fade...because we are nothing." A final shimmer. Their images melted into air. Wordless, the two men faced the Magus' body, then at Watson and Vera.

Lestrade broke the stillness. "Who were they, Holmes?"

He did not respond. His grey eyes were transfixed at a distant point of the horizon, slightly beyond the figures of the doctor and the girl. He whispered, "Yes--you know that as well as I do."

"Holmes? What were you saying?"

Holmes blinked, turning to the inspector. "Nothing, Lestrade, I was just thinking..." He felt a twinge within himself, a slight pain in the solar plexus. He took a deep breath, replacing the revolver back to its holster.

"That was...singular..."

Before he could finish his comment, Watson gave a triumphant yell.

"She lives!"


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

_A/N: I guess everything goes downhill from here. Thank you, dear readers, for the prompt response to the previous chapter!_

_Sometimes, I wonder if Vera's exchange agreement was worth it. It's up to you to decide. :P

* * *

_

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Twenty Nine

_I was told to choose  
__To choose to be what I chose to be  
__- "Fool" by bôa_

_Ascend with the greatest sagacity from the earth to heaven, and then again descend to the earth, and unite together the powers of things superior and things inferior. Thus you will obtain the glory of the whole world, and obscurity will fly far away from you.  
__- The 13 Precepts of Hermes Trismegestos_

She walked along a white-lit corridor, between harried nurses and medical interns.

_Stories always have a beginning. Even stories told to oneself._

_My name is Vera Gale. I was born in Kyoto during Jidai Matsuri in 1981._

_The University Hospital was a busy place, even though the streets outside thronged with merrymakers._

One of the patient's rooms had left a door ajar. Placing a hand flat against the close-grained wood, she pushed it open.

_I wish to say that I was born out of love. But that is not the case._

Inside, a petite woman balanced herself on the windowpane, her dark hair short and wild. She cast a look behind her, at a baby asleep on the hospital bed. Her large, almond eyes were grey-green.

Vera crossed the small space between her and the woman. Reaching out to her face, her fingers felt nothing but air.

_Nadeshiko Meier was my mother. Mamu said that I was her mirror image, except for her eyes. Hers was the uncertain color of the sea._

Nadeshiko turned back to the window, closing her eyes. With a sad, knowing smile, she jumped. She did not scream.

Vera sat beside the sleeping baby, caressing the baby's round cheek. _I was born from a mistake between two childhood friends._

The hospital room faded into darkness. As she stood up, a shower of Polaroid photographs rained around her. With outstretched hands, she caught two--a man and a woman.

_Dad was a career diplomat from Ireland--he followed the footsteps of his own father, who had made a name for himself as an cultural attaché. He was assigned to the Irish consulate in Kyoto, his first Asian post._

_Mother was the only daughter of a Kyoto geisha and a German novelist. She and my father went to the same boarding school when they were children, in England. They parted ways when her father died--her mother, my grandmother, decided to return to Japan with her daughter._

_They met again in Kyoto U., during a conference. He was a junior diplomat, she was a junior post-doc, the youngest researcher in the university._

She let the two photographs fall from her hands. They drifted down like dry leaves settling on the picture pile.

_They fell in love. Dad, at that time, was married to Mamu for five years. Rowan turned two a few months before he left for Kyoto. Mother was unmarried._

_Dad and Mamu's relationship was rocky at best. He had left for Kyoto angry and bitter, thinking of divorcing Mamu. According to them, their marriage was a suitable arrangement for both their families. For him, it was fast turning unsuitable._

_It was a lose-lose situation between Dad and Mother, between Dad and Mamu. The problem was that everyone suffered from one-sided love._

She picked up Nadeshiko's photograph. Between her fingers, the picture crumbled into dust.

_Mamu loved Dad. Dad loved Mother. But Mother loved...no one._

_Everything had to end. The one and only night Dad and Mother spent together entwined bore fruit. To avert scandal, the consulate sent Dad away, back to Mamu and Rowan. To avert scandal, the University dismissed Mother._

_Japan, during that time, even now, did not look kindly upon single mothers. Disgraced, Mother bided her time, until I was born._

_She did not love Dad enough. Neither did she love me._

The darkness dissipated, leaving her standing in the midst of a funeral cortége. Among the black-clothed mourners, she picked out the figures of her father, Mamu and Rowan. Her father was cradling a baby swaddled in white-and-pink flannel and wool. Mamu stood erect beside him, tearless and icy.

_Mamu raised me as her own, but I could not keep myself from overhearing her other name for me, when she talked about Rowan and me. I was always "his child", Rowan "her child." I always wondered why she referred us like that to other people, whenever we moved from one diplomatic post to another._

She watched a redheaded girl whirl her dark-haired sister around. Both were giggling, their flying hairs mingling with each other.

_Rowan was, is and always will be my sister._

The scene shifted to a dark room filled with shadows and cigarette fug. She curled herself up in a ball as shouts and angry words thundered in the uncertain darkness.

_The night before the trip to the carnival, I heard them fight over a photograph of Mother, which Dad always kept in his study. It was then that I had doubts about myself._

_Am I not their daughter? Am I not Rowan's sister? Is this the reason why we looked different from each other?_

_Who am I?_

_Everything went downhill from then. I tried my best to be a dutiful daughter, a sweet sibling, a caring friend. But those doubts disturbed me._

_After that fight, Mamu became more distant from me. As a teenager, I did not care. When I entered University--Dad and Mamu expected me to take political science, as was expected from children from their own station in life--I followed Rowan's example and picked something else entirely. Rowan was in Theater Arts--she wanted to be a successful actress in Broadway. I took up Chemistry--I wanted to mix things up and make them explode._

_At least in the natural sciences, all the facts remained facts, unlike my life. With chemistry, I was sure of things, like the way acid will always react with base to form salt and water._

_When I was in grad school, I fell in love with Andy Sparks. For Mamu, that was the last straw. Angry words were exchanged...and I learned about Mother and how I was a mistake in life and how I was doomed to be like Nadeshiko Meier: a smart, stupid woman._

The dark room faded from her view, as she floated face-up in the water. The water felt tepid against her skin.

_I was a smart, stupid woman. I fell in love with Andy, a married man. I remained in love with him, until I found out that I was just one of the many he had had. I was his one of his exotic trophies. When I left him, I was walking on thin air...there was nothing to hold me. Nothing was real anymore. I had to cut myself, to prove that at least I was real, my feelings were real._

_I wanted to be free from the mistakes that is my life._

_Rowan tried to pull me back to my feet, but when I learned about my father and my best friend...Dad acting like Andy..._

_I thought Dad loved Mother, but I was wrong. Another lie binding my life._

_I always compared my life as a tower of cards with many misplaced cards. Just one misjudged nudge, one mistake...and I fell._

_Who am I now? All that I'm sure of now is my name. My name is Vera Gale. Is that enough?_

A voice echoed over the waters. _"Don't be foolish, Vera. Look at yourself now; surely, I can attest that the Vera I found at Waterloo Bridge is different from the one standing before me."_

_Holmes._

Above her floated an image of a redheaded child hugging her dark-haired sister in front of a merry-go-round. Both were crying.

_"I thought I lost you, Ve!"_

_Rowan. She found me in the carnival. Mamu and Dad were unaware that I got lost._

_"How could I lose my one and only best friend? My one and only sister in the whole world!"_

The image blinked out from the blank sky. She remained floating in the water.

_Where shall this sea carry me?_

A memory.

_"I can take care of myself, Holmes."_

_"If anything strange happens, tell me." He lightly touched my shoulder, almost tentative._

_I glanced at him, my pulse beginning to quicken. "You should take care of yourself, too."_

_His hand left my shoulder. "I will. Good day."_

Another.

_Before crossing the manor's threshold, he gripped my hand in reassurance. "Promise me one thing, Vera..."_

_I nodded at him. "I will never let you go."_

Another.

_"I trust you, Holmes. You will not...let me die tonight."_

"_I keep my promises, Vera. I...we will not let you go."_

Rowan's voice echoed over her. _"How could I lose my one and only best friend? My one and only sister in the whole world!"_

She slowly sank into the water, bubbles escaping from her lips.

_My name is Vera Gale. I am...who I am._

She closed her eyes. Underwater, she could smell damp tweed mixed with the bittersweet fragrance of tobacco.

_I am Vera Gale._

With her eyes closed, she watched him kneel before her sleeping figure, his violin tucked underneath an arm. He raised his hand and touched her face, tracing the gentle dome of her forehead, the curve of her nose. His hand paused at her lips.

A few hours later, they dined at Simpson's.

It was a memory not hers, but someone's. His.

_I am loved. That's all I need to know._

Beneath the water, a pearly light illuminated the whole place. She swam towards it.


	30. Chapter Thirty

_A/N: Things are winding down, but please be patient! Some things have to be resolved, if ever they will be resolved. I ask you: should they be resolved at all? More questions are revealed...like, the white chrysanthemums, perhaps?_

* * *

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirty

Pain was the first thing Vera experienced.

The light hurt her eyes. She took a deep breath and felt her ribs creak. Dazzled, she squinted upwards, shading her eyes with a shaky hand. She saw each of her fingers haloed with a bright fuzz.

An indefinite shape blocked the light. She felt another set of fingers intertwine with hers.

She opened her mouth, relishing the sharp sizzle of pain from her cracked lips. Her throat was parched.

"Water," she rasped. "Please." She closed her eyes again, breathing deeply. _I can...feel...pain. I...can feel!_

Someone brought her hand down, her fingers still imprisoned in someone's hand. It was warm and soothing.

_I am...alive._

Somewhere, the door creaked open and shut.

She felt her hand being squeezed. "The nurse will be here presently. Earlier, I had the misfortune of bumping against the side table and upsetting the ewer."

Vera opened her eyes at the statement. Blinking, she let her focus stabilize before tracing her bandaged arm to her hand, to the one holding her hand. She met his twinkling grey eyes with her wavering green ones.

Despite the pain, she tried to smile. "I'm...back." She closed her eyes. "How long...?"

"Three days. Watson and the other doctors were despairing over your case...your fever finally broke yesterday." Holmes let go of her hand, as he tried to lean back against the Chippendale chair.

The door behind him opened, the nurse entering the room with a pitcher and a glass of water. She nodded at Holmes, with a small smile for Vera as she set both items on the table beside her. "I've already informed the doctor, Mr. Holmes."

Pulling herself up in a half-sitting position, Vera reached out for the glass, but the nurse gently restrained her. "Ms. Gale, let me..."

"No, please...I can manage," Vera protested.

With a sigh, the nurse pressed the glass in Vera's hands. "Just small sips, my dear." Withdrawing from the bedside table, she gave a small bow to Holmes before leaving the room.

The water felt cool on her lips, as she sipped the liquid slowly. She swirled it inside her mouth before swallowing it. A drop of moisture strayed from her throat, making her cough.

Holmes took the half-empty glass from her, patting her back. "It was too fast, Vera. Breathe deep."

She looked up at him. "Where am I?"

"Penzance's only hospital, so it seems. It was an hour's ride from the cliffs of World's End..."

She started at the last few words. She gripped his arm. "World's End...the Magus, what happened...?"

Watson answered, "He's dead."

Holmes glanced behind him and saw the doctor close the door with a foot. Watson was carrying a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, his pleasant face a ruddy moon rising from the flowers.

"Watson, you found what I asked for..."

"It was quite problematic, though, as these aren't in season..." Watson made his way to Vera's bedside table and laid the bouquet on the small lacquered area.

Vera turned towards Watson, confused. "Dead? But how...?"

Holmes and Watson exchanged glances. "It was a misfire from..." the doctor began.

"Pshaw, Watson! Why do we have to hide it from her?" Holmes admonished his friend. He faced Vera, grey eyes expressionless. "The Magus was going to stab you, so I merely followed my instincts. The twins disappeared after that incident."

"Oh." She fell back on the pillows, closing her eyes. Opening them again, she fixed a serious gaze at Holmes. "Will you...stand trial for that?"

"No. The Law may be strict, but she is flexible."

"That's...good." She glanced at Watson. "Thanks for the flowers, Watson. No, thank you..." She looked back at Holmes. "And you. The letter wasn't in vain, after all."

Watson bowed at her. "Holmes specified what flowers to give you." Smiling, he gave a nod at his friend. "If you will excuse me, I have to arrange some things with the hospital staff about our trip back to London tomorrow..."

* * *

As Watson shut the door, Vera turned to Holmes once more and whispered, "Tell me a story, Holmes. To help me sleep."

He leaned back against his chair, steepling his fingers as he fixed his grey eyes at her. Vera could not interpret his look--it was a cross between amusement and annoyance. Snuggling deeper into the covers, she added, "Any story will do. I...missed your voice, somehow."

He replied, his expression settling down to sardonic amusement, "I don't think I am the right person to fulfill that request. Watson is a better storyteller than I am, based on his various sensational accounts of cases published..."

"Back...then, when I was...asleep, I told myself a story," Vera said, pulling herself up on the bed. Her green eyes focused to a point beyond his head. "It was...well...I don't know. It helped me find my way back here."

"Well, what was it, then? A fairy tale?"

"Something like it, perhaps. But I don't know how it ended, though. So...tell me a story, something with an ending. My story wasn't quite satisfying, in a way...but it helped me understand some things."

Holmes closed his eyes. "We'll see. Make yourself comfortable, then. And don't interrupt me when I begin..."

When Vera tucked herself back into bed, facing him, he opened his eyes and gazed back at her, grey light misted in abstraction. "Hm. Once upon a time, there was a man who lived in a tower of glass. People from far and wide hailed him as the wisest person among them all, and asked him for guidance."

"But they did not understand why he had to live in the tower all alone. Little do they know that his wisdom came at a price. That price was loneliness."

"For the wise man, it was a heavy price to pay, but he paid it gladly. Day and night, he spent his time gathering knowledge and wisdom from his perch on the tower of glass. He rarely left his tower."

"One by one, his few friends left him, as he had made himself unreachable to anyone else, save for those who needed his help. Those who had remained loyal to him could not understand him. This fact saddened him...it was lonely in the tower and he had no one to share his joy in earning knowledge. Wisdom was a bitter joy for the man."

"As time passed, the glass-tower began to crack. It could not bear the weight of the wise man." He paused, leaning towards her with eyes closed. His normally-tenor voice was hushed. "Despite the danger posed by the tower, he refused to leave it, because everyone depended on his wisdom learned from his perch."

"Then, one day, someone--a woman--dared to climb up the glass tower, unmindful of the cracks which cut her hands and feet. Curious, the man leaned over the ledge to get a good look..."

Another pause. She pulled herself up again, eyes widening at his words. Her voice barely broke the silence. "And he saw himself."

Holmes blinked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "He asked her, 'Why did you come here? The tower can only serve one man.' "

"She replied, 'Because I want to learn. I want to know.' "

" 'But why?' "

" 'Because...I want to know why it hurts to be alone.' "

He stood up from his chair, reaching out to her. With careful, firm hands, he pushed her back into bed, tucking the sheets around her. "That's enough for now, Vera."

She tugged at his sleeve. "But...the story? How will it end?"

He sat back on the chair. "I don't know, Vera. I have no idea. The cracked-glass tower, after all, cannot hold two persons." Fumbling for his pipe from his coat pockets, he said, "Go to sleep, Vera. You need to rest."


	31. Chapter Thirty One

_A/N: With the antagonists gone, there shouldn't be anymore problems, right? Wrong! Because there is a nagging problem of...Vera. And who could be more affected than...well, go fill in the blanks._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirty One

_"You'll never live this life that I live  
I'll never live the life that wakes me in the night  
You'll never hear the message I give  
You'll say it looks as though I might give up this fight"_

_- Fiona Apple, "Never Is A Promise"_

From his peripheral vision, Holmes noticed his friend shift his weight from his left foot to his right as he crouched to inspect the ashes of the fireplace. Or what had remained of the fireplace of one of his clients.

He flicked at a few amber-glass shards sticking out of the ashes. "This explains the scorch marks on the walls, Watson. Did Lady Wicklow say that her grandfather had a heart condition?" He observed Watson's facial expression change from pained speculation to a bland one.

The doctor bent down, picking up one of the shards. "Why, indeed. She said his physician left him a set of nitroglycerine ampoules a few weeks ago." He nodded at Holmes, tossing the shard back into the charred pile.

"Hrm. This complicates things." He stretched himself back up, rubbing his chin, eyeing his friend. "And I can see that your mind is not wholly into this matter."

Watson was shocked. "Why, Holmes? Do I have a glass face?"

He laughed. "Yes. You are, in fact, the perfect picture of an honest Englishman of our time, my dear Watson." Seeing his friend miffed by his comment, he continued, "You might as well tell me now what's in your mind, rather than have me deduct it from your facial and body expressions."

Watson threw his hands up in the air. "I give up, Holmes! You are both amusing and infuriating at the same time! Just like Vera!"

Holmes leaned against the cracked lintel of the fireplace, folding his arms across his chest. "So I gather this is about Vera, am I right?"

"Who else, pray tell?! It's been a month, Holmes, since we brought her back from World's End."

"And she's healing nicely."

"Very perceptive of you, Holmes," Watson retorted, shaking his head. "She is not completely back to her old self, you see. Or are you too blind when it comes to her?"

Struck by the warmth of his words, Holmes replied, "Maybe I am, because I cannot afford to be affected by...it. Do you have any proposed solution to this problem?"

"I...don't know." He shook his head again. "I know you too well to not consider marriage an option, but..."

"I marry Vera? A very novel, but impossible idea!"

Watson ignored his words. "I said that I know you too well to not consider marriage an option, because you don't love her."

Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but instead closed it, turning away from his friend. A moment of awkward silence followed, until he chose to break it. "We have more important things to do at the moment, Watson."

* * *

Holmes had noticed that look from Vera for a month already. When she smiled at Mrs. Hudson, at Watson's wife, or at Marlene the corners of her mouth would not turn up quite properly. When she spoke to them, or to Watson, or even to him, she would end her words with a glance sideways, lowered lashes hiding her jade-green irises.

He had caught her a number of times staring at the window, her family picture in one hand as she traced invisible curlicues on the glass with another.

And there was that _one other time_.

* * *

"Holmes, do you have any regrets?" Vera asked him a few days ago. It was evening, after supper, and they had settled in their usual places set months before--him sitting on the armchair, her on the floor at his feet, facing the lighted fireplace.

She continued staring at the fire, her head stiff, avoiding his questioning look.

Holmes sank back into his armchair, holding his cherrywood pipe away from his lips. "I cannot say I don't have regrets, Vera. What made you ask that?"

She shrugged, a liquid movement of her shoulder, glancing at him. Her oriental eyes had a peculiar brightness reflected from the fire. "Because...sometimes...I think that everything that happened in the past month..." She looked back into the fire. "The Magus, the twins...they're gone _and I'm still here_."

For once, he could not offer her any suitable answer. He reached out to her, stroking her hair in an awkward fashion. She glanced back at him, lips parted in a silent question, then took his hand into hers. Her hands were cold, despite her proximity to the fire.

She pulled herself up. "I want to rest. Good evening." Vera left him staring at the fire, his pipe unlit.

* * *

Both men were silent on their cab ride back to Watson's house. The evening crowds of London began to swarm on the streets as their cab rolled by, faces hooded by the vertical glare of the gaslights.

As they alighted at the gate, Watson spoke up, "Holmes, there's something I should tell you. That night, during the masquerade, you asked me to steal into Sir Margolin's study...for the grimoire." He saw Holmes nod curtly. "I took the grimoire's pictures, just like what you told me to...but, I also found this..."

Before Holmes could reply, he thrust a long leather box into his hands. "I carried it with me every single day, waiting for the right time... I'm sorry, Holmes, I should have given it to you earlier."

Holmes flipped back the lid, and picked up a delicate silver-white feather by its shaft. He closed his eyes, feeling its weightlessness between his index finger and thumb.

"No, Watson. This is for Vera, not for me." He gave a small bow of thanks to his friend before walking away, feather back in its box, inside his coat pocket.

He wondered why a light, weightless thing such as the feather could weigh heavily in his heart.


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

_A/N: Almost there, the ending, that is. Please be patient, but I'm trying to tie things together in a neat package (or what passes to be a neat package). I suggest listening to Vienna Teng's "Recessional", "The Tower" and "Nothing Without You" to get you in the right mood._

* * *

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirty Two

_"For it's my thoughts that bind me here   
it's this love that I most fear   
and this child I would destroy   
for I hold her pain most dear."_

_- Vienna Teng, "My Medea"_

It was a strange spring morning, of sunlight shafting through the slight drizzle over London, streaming through the curtained window.

She was kneeling under the light, her personal things scattered around her and her knapsack.

Vera glanced at the curtains dancing with a wayward draft, tucking a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. Her lips quirked up into a small curve before settling back into a more serious line.

"Books, calculator, iPod..." she murmured, picking each item up before stuffing them into the bag. "Wallet, camera..."

Her hand brushed against a pile of Polaroids, knocking them down. Clicking her tongue, she reached out and gathered them back into a neat stack.

"Where did I put the box...?" she asked herself, craning her neck at her bed. "I need a box..." She glanced back at her pile, at the topmost photograph--of her and Holmes in evening clothes, smiling at the camera.

But their smiles had a forced quality within them.

Vera willed herself to look at her dresser, at the open leather box. The feather glinted under the uncertain spring light of London.

* * *

"Wagner's opus has that philosophical rigor which is quite rare among opera pieces," Vera said, looking out of the carriage window as they rolled off from Covent Garden. "_Tristan und Isolde_ is one such example...a product of his friendship with Schoepenhauer, if I could remember it correctly."

Holmes nodded at her, grey eyes abstracted with thought. She felt uncomfortable with his quiet, thoughtful gaze at her, so she kept glancing at the carriage window, watching the buildings flit past in the yellow gaslight and shadows.

She kept her voice light. "The last time I attended an opera was when I was a teenager, when Mamu and Dad dragged both me and Rowan to watch _Turandot_. Strange, that particular opera won't be composed until the 1920's by Puccini..."

"Is that so?" he replied, leaning forward as he smiled at her. She noticed that his smile did not quite match the expression of his eyes.

"Holmes..." she said, lowering her eyes.

"You don't have to pretend, Vera. Tonight has been a distraction from your thoughts."

"Yes." She glanced back at the window, avoiding his pointed look. "But, thank you. It was an enjoyable evening."

He knocked the ceiling of the carriage. "Cabbie, we'll stop here."

She alighted from the carriage, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders as she waited for Holmes to pay their fare.

_But why...?_

He was beside her, offering an arm. "Shall we walk back to Baker Street while we talk?"

As they began to walk, she spoke, "I don't understand, Holmes...why this sudden outing? The dinner, the opera...why?"

"Because I've noticed that you needed a distraction. Ever since we came back to London, you were quite...off-color."

"Oh." She forced a smile at him. "I'm sorry, then. It's just that...there are some things which were bugging me lately."

He raised an eyebrow. "Bugging? Kindly define that word, Vera"

She sighed, her head leaning against his shoulder. "Disturbing, that is. Not just some things...well..." She shrugged. "I guess _everything_."

He cleared his throat, a signal for her to continue. She said, "Since that...time, I feel that I've lost something important." She pulled him back, her hand leaving his sleeve. "I guess with wishes, you have to trade something in order to get it."

"I'm afraid I can't follow your train of thought."

"Holmes, it's just that..." She paused, seeing his pained look for the first time. "I've thought about everything that happened to me...to us, to everyone else, and I realized that..." She inhaled, the night air beginning to thicken with fog. "...I don't belong here at all."

Vera spread her arms wide to illustrate her point. "Look at me, Holmes! I may dress, speak, even act like I belong here, but...the nagging feeling still remains. I can't fool myself anymore...the Magus called me here in the first place to use me, not to make me stay here permanently. Now that he's gone, my purpose...the only reason why I am here right now, and not back in my own era...is gone as well."

He asked, his voice gentle, "What are you missing then, Vera?"

"I found myself back there, in the crossroads. But finding myself, I found that...I miss the life I've lived with Rowan, with my family, with my work. I miss them so much, since they _defined_ me, despite the flaws. Holmes...I miss them, and I know I won't be able to go back since the Magus and the twins are gone!"

He was silent at her outburst. With one smooth movement, he reached out into his coat pocket and drew out a long leather box. He placed it in her hands.

"Watson was right: it is neither his or my right to keep it from you."

She opened the box and picked up the feather at the base. "Where...did you...?"

He turned away from her, his face hidden in the stark shadows cast by the streetlights. "Watson found it in the manor last February. It's yours."

She opened her mouth, trying to find the words but failing. She could not help but feel the sense of loss upon seeing the feather. She watched his austere form silhouetted against the chiaroscuro of the evening.

"Holmes...thank you."

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"I'm sorry, Holmes. But thank you."

* * *

She picked up the feather by the shaft, watching the sunlight play across the silver-white barbs as she twirled it in her fingers. "Wishes are two-bladed, Vera..." she told herself. "You have to lose him to gain everything back."

"And besides..." She placed the feather back into the box, shutting the lid. "You cannot complicate his life further by staying here."

Her voice shook as her hand wrapped around the hard leather, nails digging through the material. "If you love him, you have to leave before the glass tower crumbles. This is for the best...this is for the best...dammit, Ve, believe in what you're saying!" She wiped away her tears with her hands, smudging dust on her face.

_Wishes are two-bladed, Vera. Never forget that._


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

**Truthseekers**  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirty-three

"I trust that you can take care of this for me," Vera said, pressing the worn leather journal in Watson's hands.

"Of course, dear Vera...and your other belongings?" Watson checked his visitor as she stood in his small clinic-cum-study. "You left them with him?"

She looked away from the doctor. "Yes. He needs the books, and he might find the other things useful or amusing in the...future." Vera bowed, picking up the silk drawstring purse she had left on his desk. "I guess this is goodbye, then. Give my love to Mary and little Jack."

Before she could turn away, Watson reached out and caught her by the elbow. "No, Vera...there's something I want to ask you."

He saw her grip her purse tighter before relaxing. "What is it, Watson?" She inclined her head, her unbound hair falling to one side, framing her sad, smiling face in a black asymmetric curtain.

"Are you sure about your decision?"

"...Yes."

"You won't change your mind?"

Her sad smile faded. "Why do you ask?"

"Vera, tell me the truth--do you love him?"

She stiffened as soon as those words came out in the open. Vera bowed her head, disengaging his hand from her arm.

"Well?"

"If I answer 'yes', would it matter to him?"

"OF COURSE!" Watson was shocked at the warmth of his own response. "I mean, I've never seen him so...taken by you." He chuckled, shaking his head. "He cares for you, Vera...and I've never seen him care for someone of the opposite sex so deeply."

She smiled again. "And it is because of my love for him that I should leave."

"But why?"

She turned back, walking towards the door.

"Because..."

_Because._

* * *

_They faced each other, red and black, on the bridge, a bridge woven with threads of different hues and textures._

_Vera held a thick-spun thread of silver and white between them. "Rowan, did you do this?"_

_Her sister touched Vera's outstretched hand. "Hmm, yes and no. I only spliced them together, and they wound around by themselves."_

_"Really?"_

_Rowan nodded, and both sisters laughed, their hands linked together. After a spell, Vera let go of her hand._

_"Rowan..."_

_"Yes, Ve?"_

_She touched the silver-and-white cord tied around her wrist, its thread running down, woven through the tapestry. "I can feel him. Even if he's away, I can still feel him, like an afterthought."_

_"Is that so?" Rowan leaned over the parapet, watching the mist roll down the river. "It's not surprising...you are bound to him, and he is bound to you."_

_Silence wrapped around them, as they both watched the rolling mist running below the bridge._

_Vera spoke up. "Rowan...you can't go back home, right?"_

_Her sister shook her head, red hair flashing in the vague, misted light. "When you refused to go through the crossroads, when I wove you back, all the portals were closed. Even dream portals."_

_"Then if I decide to return home...you can, too?"_

_Rowan remained silent. Then she replied, "It's up to you, Ve. Whatever your happiness...wherever it is...I'll be happy for you." She smiled sadly at her dark-haired sister. "I'm sure Eric and Mamu will understand."_

_Vera paused, running a finger on her life-thread, intertwined with his...Holmes'._

_"Then I'll come back home, I'll wish it...just for you."_

_Rowan patted Vera's hand. "But, Ve...are you...?"_

_"I miss you and Maman and Eric and my work. I miss my university, my research, even New Hampshire. I know...that you, everyone of you, need me and miss me, and I want to repay you. Especially you, Ro, because you're my sister and nothing can change that. You need me more than...he needs me."_

_Their eyes met--green and blue._

_"Wishes are double-edged, I know. And the consequences of my wish to return back there with you, I will gladly accept, Ro. I have no regrets."_

* * *

As she twisted the doorknob, Vera looked at Watson for the last time. "Because London needs him more than I."

As the door closed between them, Watson sat back on his chair, holding the journal in his hands. The thin volume felt heavy despite its size.

"Goodbye, Vera."


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

_A/N: Almost there, after three years! As a really close friend said to me: my self three years ago wouldn't have been able to finish TS, wouldn't know how to end it in the first place. Maybe, three years ago, I was still unsure and immature about this whole enterprise of telling a story of this length. Anyway, here's the penultimate chapter of Vera's Victorian London sojourn..._

* * *

**Truthseekers **  
_by mierin-lanfear_

Chapter Thirty Four

Vera ate alone in the flat, preferring to sit crosslegged in front of the fireplace with her dinner plate balanced on her lap. Beside her was her nylon backpack, two books lighter than before, when she arrived a few months ago.

They had met at the door earlier in the evening, as he was going out.

_"Do not wait for me, Vera,"_ Holmes said. He donned his ordinary cloth cap as he spoke to her. _"Mrs. Hudson already set your supper inside. Sleep early--we have an early day tomorrow."_

She did not reply, just nodding at his words. His tone felt distant, aloof.

Remembering their exchange, Vera huddled closer to the grate, setting aside the empty plate.

_There's no other way._

She closed her eyes, withdrawing inward to herself. In the darkness, she could see the thick white cord, waving before her. With a practised hand, Vera caught it, running a finger on the intertwined silver thread at one end.

It felt both warm and cold, restless and still, changeable at each heartbeat.

The confusing sensation surprised her, jolting her out of her reverie.

"I...I didn't know..." she spoke to the fire, now burning low. She wiped her forehead for invisible beads of sweat.

The crackle of dry wood and sparks from the fire sounded suspiciously like breaking glass in Vera's perception.

* * *

_They faced each other on the woven bridge for the last time._

_"Tomorrow."_

_"Are you sure?"_

_"Rowan, don't make me repeat myself."_

_"But...won't you regret your decision? If you love..."_

_Vera waved her sister's words off, turning away from her. "I've no regrets, for now. But...if there's one thing I've learned here..." She looked back at Rowan, smiling. "...it's how I should live with it..."_

_She felt for her life-thread around her wrist. "...and that I'm never alone."  
_

* * *

She woke up at the chiming of the grandfather clock. Four o'clock in the morning. 

As she swung her legs down from the bed, she noticed that a dim light seeped below the closed door. He had returned while she was asleep and rekindled the fire in the study.

Vera slipped off her nightshirt and began to dress up.

Mrs. Hudson had knitted her a new pair of black tights. Her boots were cleaned and buffed to a clear sheen the night before. The red knit shirt-dress had shrunk slightly, but she had lost some weight as well--it still felt snug and warm around her.

Wrapping herself with an old oversized trench-coat, Vera faced the mirror for the last time.

"I guess it's time."

She picked up the long leather box containing the feather, and tucked it in the coat pocket. She gave a final look at the bed, dresser, windows and at the packed backpack that she would never bring back with her.

_Mary will take care of my letter for 'Lene, _she thought. _Watson will know what to do with the journal...Rowan got it, after all. The rest..._

When she came to London, dripping wet and suicidal, Vera remembered that she had brought her books, iPod, calculator, camera and other ephemera with her. To these, she waved them goodbye in her mind.

_If Rowan and Eric found the journal, then I will see you again. If not...then, that is fate._

The dresser top was bare save for the box of photographs. To that, she also bid goodbye.

As she reached out for the doorknob of her--now Watson's--room, she could not help but notice that it felt like the silver thread in her thought, both warm and cold, restless and still, like her heart.


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

_A/N: Finally, we have reached the most important part of a story, where most threads are tied together. This wouldn't have been possible without you, constant reader. Many thanks to those who reviewed, especially BaskervilleBeauty and my dearest friend (and beta-reader) ZK. I've also compiled a small set of musical pieces which are themed around this fic--visit my homepage at LiveJournal (check my profile page in FF .net) _

* * *

**Truthseekers  
**_by mierin-lanfear_

_Love simply is.  
- Paolo Coelho, "The Witch of Portobello"_

Chapter Thirty Five

"You've had a rough day, Eric," Mamu whispered. She patted his shoulder as she looked at her sleeping daughter. "Why don't you go get yourself something to eat."

He reached out to tuck a strand of red hair from his fiancée's still face, caressing Rowan's cheek with a finger. "Make that three rough days, Ma."

Under the full summer's sun, shining from the window, Rowan's cheek remained pale.

"When will Rowan wake up?"

Eric thought he saw her closed eyelids flutter. _A trick of light?_ he thought.

"Soon, Ma. Very soon."

* * *

She found Holmes standing in front of a banked-down fire, hands thrust inside his coat pockets. Brows furrowed, he mulled the dying fire before him, leaving her presence unacknowledged. 

Vera tiptoed--and it was hard for her to tiptoe in her boots--behind him, and tried to slide her arm around his.

"I'm ready."

He shifted his focus to her. "Have you brought what's necessary? You won't be coming back."

The last two words stung her with their matter-of-factness. She kept her face still. "Just my old clothes and the box. This coat--" Vera spread the trench's skirts. "I'll keep as well. The rest are with Mrs. Hudson."

Holmes gave a noncommittal cough. "Then, let me hail a cab for you." He gently disengaged her arm from his.

* * *

Mamu clasped Rowan's still hand, folding it into a fist. Her daughter's fist was small and white against her open palm. 

"Ro...if you can hear me, please wake up." She kissed her closed hand, her voice barely a whisper. "Ve, wherever you are...if you can hear me, bring Rowan back home."

As if in response to her prayer, Rowan's hand opened up, a white flower blooming in slow motion. Mamu looked up at her sleeping child.

Her eyes were closed, but her head had tilted towards her, as if listening to her mother's soliloquy.

* * *

Vera felt for her life-thread as they sat inside the moving carriage. It was easy enough for her, like breathing. 

Holmes remained impassive, his face a mask. Contrary to his stillness, Vera can sense his agitation as she held her thread, at the segment where the white and silver met.

_When I'm back home...will I be able to feel him? Or will he be..._

She paused. Her time was more than a hundred years ahead of his. To her growing anxiety, Vera could not remember anything else about Holmes that Eric had told her, aside from his cases.

A century too long. By the time she was born, he was already gone.

As if reading her thoughts, he took her hand in his. His hand felt warm and reassuring.

"Are you scared?"

She nodded. "A bit. It's ironic that months ago, I jumped off the bridge without any hesitation."

"Are you hesitant now? We can...go back, if you want."

Before she could reply, the carriage stopped, with the cabbie calling out, "Waterloo Bridge."

* * *

"It's true...her hand moved! She's waking up!" 

"Then...my eyes did not trick me after all."

"Why?"

"I _thought_ I saw her lids twitch."

"Should I call for an ambulance now?"

"They'll just send her back home, just like three days ago. We'll just wait and see what happens, Ma."

* * *

Vera stood on the parapet, the dawn sky above her lightening up from deep lavender to rose. The wind whipped her coat not unlike an ungainly bird's wings. Below her, the river boiled mist and fog. "Everything's come full circle." 

Holmes climbed up beside her, his face still an expressionless mask. "Is there no turning back, Vera? This is the last time I'm asking you this question."

She shook her head. "I guess this is goodbye, then."

He remained silent.

"Thank you...Holmes. I'm a rather terrible client."

His reply was dry. "I know that. And the work I had to do..."

"I don't have anything to repay you for that, too."

"Just live well, Vera. Live well and long."

"Without regrets?"

He coughed out a laugh. "You do know that it's impossible. It's part of human nature to live with them."

She laughed with him, but their shared mirth quickly died. Without looking at him, she brought out the leather box containing the feather and opened it.

"Holmes, have you ever said or done anything that you don't regret?"

He pondered on her question, then replied, "I cannot say for sure. One should not regret in saying something truthful, that I am certain. It is infinitely more regretful to leave some matters unsaid."

The river breeze began to blow harder, causing the mist to swirl upwards. Vera picked up the feather from its case.

Her voice was soft, her words carried by the wind. "Then if I say I love you, will you stay silent?"

As she spoke, her world tilted and blurred before her. The feather clutched in her hands was downy-soft. His arms were warm, enveloping her with the familiar scent of wool, nicotine and sandalwood.

The kiss was brief--feather-light and gentle. When she stepped sideways, into the river of mist, her last memory of him was his grey eyes.

He did not hear her fall down, no telltale splash or a gurgle. As the sun rose higher, the mist lifted, revealing a calm expanse of water.

Holmes fancied, as he jumped down to the pavement, that he heard a flutter of wings.

* * *

Rowan's eyes snapped open. 

Eric and Mamu exclaimed in tandem, "RO!"

She pulled herself up, rubbing her eyes. "Geez, how long did I sleep? And Mamu, you're here...!"

"...Eric called...dear girl, you slept for three days!" Mamu replied. She touched her daughter's ruffled red hair. "Are you okay? Are you hungry...thirsty? We even brought you to the hospital..."

She cupped her mother's face, smiling. "I'm fine..." She looked over her mother's shoulder. "Uh, Eric...can you drive me to the bridge, right now?"

The suddenness of her waking, coupled by the way Rowan spoke and moved, confused him. "Hon, are you sure...?"

"Dammit, Eric, I have no time for that! We have to go to the bridge now!"

They found Vera sitting on the parapet, her over-large trench coat wrapped around her.

Two sisters faced each other on the bridge. Without any further words, they reached out and embraced each other.

_-Fin-_


End file.
